


[Between Always and Never]

by peachywonder



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Smut, Facials, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mpreg, Omega Verse, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Rough Sex, Roughhousing, Self-Harm, Sex, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24602806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachywonder/pseuds/peachywonder
Summary: In a world where Omegas are either highly prized or shunned as hyper-sexual degenerates, Timothée finds himself as the personal courtesan of the Master at the House of Guadagnino after living as a self-sustaining sex worker at Omega boarding houses for much of his life. Although he enjoys the glamour and glitz of being the Omega-in-waiting and call boy of a wealthy man in high society, he is eventually met with a moral and personal dilemma when he meets and falls in love with Professor Hammer, his piano teacher that the Master hired to teach him. Betrayal, love, jealousy, high society, wealth and power, moral dilemmas, prostitution.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer, Timothée Chalamet/Luca Guadagnino
Comments: 102
Kudos: 132





	1. Courtesan of the House

**Author's Note:**

> HEY!  
> I've been a long-time writer/blogger and long-time Charmie/CMBYN fan, and I've finally decided to put all my weird, fucked-up fantasies into writing! There will be much much more to come-- I'm imagining this as some sort of long-term project-- and a lot of controversial, dark content coming up eventually. And a lot of smut.
> 
> Thanks for reading though (:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothée finds himself as the personal courtesan of the wealthy and powerful Master of the House of Guadagnino. After living as a self-sustaining sex worker at Omega boarding houses for much of his life, he now must learn to adjust to a life of luxury and grandeur in high society and find a way to justify his morals as a courtesan. Master Luca has decided to hire a piano teacher for Timothée in order to make him more "cultured" and aid in his integration into high society. His teacher, Professor Armand Hammer, is set to arrive soon.

### Chapter 1

Timothée nestled himself onto the cushion that lay adjacent to the large bay window in his bedroom with his music portfolio on his lap. The moonlight was his only company for the brief time before Luca would arrive at his door for his nightly session, and he relished in the quiet, calm solitude that this cozy little corner of his room offered. This corner of his room just as much offered Timothée a splendid view of the east gardens below his bay window where rose-topped bushes and tall rows of foliage extended up and up towards his window. Timothée loved this situation of his room above the gardens- the warmth of the morning sun accompanied by the summer breezes made it so that the sweet, mild scent of the flowers wafted their way up the castle walls and into Timothée’s bedroom through the small crack he allowed in his window every morning- and how he adored waking up to such sights and smells.

These particular sights and smells were nothing of what Timothée had been so familiar with just 2 weeks prior to his moving into the House of Guadagnino. The perpetually dank, damp walls of his previous boarding house only ever reeked of sex, of sweat, and of the poorly disguised shame of underperforming Omegas. Although the conditions of his previous boarding house weren’t nearly as poor as countless other Omega boarding houses, which more or less resembled cheap, decrepit brothels, Timothée had never been more grateful than he was at the very moment that he’d received his letter of acceptance as the new Omega of the House of Guadagnino. At 24-years-old, he was one of the youngest Omegas to have had been accepted into such a house of high society in the Kingdom Lombardy. After 4 years of training himself in the art of seduction and sex at various boarding houses by his own accord, he’d finally worked his way from being a nameless street whore to being the Omega-in-waiting at the Guadagnino estate. Timothée went from surviving on cheap rolls and cigarettes at crowded salons to dining on meat roasts in grand halls and clinking glasses of rosé with other high society dinner guests.

Although this path of life wasn’t the most morally sound, Timothée was grateful. He could have, by some unfortunate fate, ended up waist-deep in the Omega slave trade or starving on the streets had he abandoned his boarding houses, as was very common for the rebellious Omegas in the Kingdom Lombardy that desired to stray from their degrading social confines in search of a different line of work outside of sex work. However, Timothée had ultimately decided to swallow his pride and self-respect in order to train himself to be one of the most widely sought-after Omegas in the competitive world of high society, where house masters fought tooth-and-nail for only the most beautiful, seductive, and exotic Omegas to live in their estates as their own personal courtesans.

This was how Timothée found himself at the House of Guadagnino in the Cremona province of Lombardy, sipping ambrosia-laced lavender tea at his bay window and watching the moonlight pour out over the east gardens from his bay window. He flipped lazily through his music portfolio- he was to have his first piano lesson with a new music professor in the morning who went by the title of “Professor Hammer”, as Luca desired that his Omega was to be cultured and knowledgeable of the arts in order to better integrate into high society. A knock on his door eventually came.

“Timothée, Luca is arriving in a few minutes. Are you ready for him?” The disembodied voice of his nurse called from behind the door.

The young Omega sighed and placed his music portfolio down before reluctantly leaving his spot next to the bay window to sit down on his bed and prepare himself.

“Yes- you may send him in when he comes,” he called, undoing the ribbon of lacey black robe he donned and letting it fall off his slender shoulders. “Thank you,” he added.

Timothée’s muscles felt warm and wired, and he already began to feel a slight wetness rouse between his legs. ' _This ambrosia really works wonders in minutes,_ ' he thought to himself, realizing how increasingly horny he’d become with every sip of tea. If not for this particular brew, Tim would've felt no hornier than a piece of sliced bread, but by now, he was inching closer and closer to the point of rutting himself against the bed frame in an attempt to satisfy himself. Sprawling himself out on the silk sheets, Tim positioned himself in a vulnerable pose on his bed, with only the thin lace of his robe draping enticingly over his long, thin legs. He breathed deeply and slowly, relaxing every inch of his body so as to allow Luca to come and toss him around as he so pleased and take him in any manner that he liked. Within a couple of moments, Timothée was already unbearably and impatiently horny as an effect of the ambrosia and could no longer refrain from fondling himself lightly with one hand and sucking lazily on the fingers of his other hand before he heard his door open, then shut, and then lock.

“Luca,” Timothée hummed between his own wet fingers in his mouth.


	2. Lesson #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Armand "Armie" Hammer meets with his Timothée for his first piano lesson at the House of Guadagnino. Despite his pre-existing prejudices towards Omegas in general, Armie finds himself drawn to Timothée's unquestionable physical beauty as well as his emotional sincerity, and he grows more and more curious about the Omega with every moment they spend together.

### Chapter 2

“Let me know if you’ve any issues or are in need of anymore toiletries for the bathroom,” the servant said from the doorway.

“Absolutely, thank you.”

Professor Armand Hammer (Armie, as his friends knew him) did not turn to dismiss the servant but heard the door shut behind him. He stood wide-eyed in the center of his private quarters and was all too fixated at the opulence of his new quarters. A bed three-times the size of his former, donned with satin sheets of red and bronze, was situated in the middle of an expensive-looking rug. The huge dresser, 2 side tables, and a work desk and chair all of similar style looked more like theatre props than practical pieces of furniture, what with their gold trims, detailed woodwork, and crystal knobs. The sheer size room itself was so expansive that Armie, a man of almost 6-and-a-half feet, felt as though he’d shrunk to the size of a doll. The furnishings in the room were almost _ridiculously_ opulent, as if Master Guadagnino had to constantly prove his excessive wealth, even to the help.

Armie had to refrain from rolling his eyes and jokingly imagined if the toilet paper in his attached bathroom might also be made of silk and satin, being the practical and modest man that he was. Although he couldn’t ever imagine _himself_ shelling out as much money on such simple things where moderately-priced versions would certainly suffice, he was grateful for his quarters and rather indifferent towards whatever point Master Guadagnino desired to prove with his excessively expensive tastes in furnishings. Not every workplace of Armie’s would provide the same standards of room and board, let alone a room of such grandeur and luxury.

Having been traveling for days, Armie decided to lay down for a brief nap after tucking his belongings away. Already on his first day of arrival, he was to teach a piano lesson to the Omega-in-waiting of the house at 3pm, just 2 hours before dinner, where he was also to play piano as dinner entertainment in the main hall for Master Guadagnino and his dinner guests. He rolled onto his side, laying on top of the made-up bed, and watched the green foliage of one the estate’s gardens flutter outside his bedroom window while imagining his first meeting with his new student-to-be.

It wasn’t that Armie had generally low expectations of every new student that he attained, but how much could he realistically expect from one whose sole income was derived from strutting shamelessly around in skimpy outfits and performing unspeakable acts for wealthy men under the cover of calling it an “art form”? As if such perverseness could ever even be referred to as such. Armie knew what he’d always been taught about Omegas- they were _whores_. To him, no amount of grooming or integration into high society or training in any truly artistic discipline could ever change the fact that Omegas would never be more than promiscuous show boys. He mentally prepared himself to gather his pride, do whatever he had to do to collect his paycheck at the House of Guadagnino, and leave as soon as his contract allowed.

Armie silently strung together the things he might say at their lesson in order to establish his professionalism until the words grew further and further apart from each other with each fleeting bit of consciousness, and he succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

~~~

The music room was situated just a short walk down the hall from Armie’s quarters. Armie cautiously proceeded down the hall and nodded politely as he passed 2 servants and a nurse on his way over, hiking his chest forward and assuming a confident and professional stature in case he’d come across Master Guadagnino on his walk to the lesson- he’d yet to meet with him in person as the Master was out and about in town all day for business matters. The Master, as rumored by the coachmen and servants that guided him around the estate that morning, was a man that emanated power and authority. He built his wealth upon some empire of a business that which many people knew very little about was highly respected by aristocrats and peasants alike.

“He’s a good businessman,” the coachman had asserted on the carriage ride over. “He has his ways and bouts, his occasional disagreements with the help, and a sort of… unpredictableness.”

Armie had raised his eyebrows at the coachman’s choice of words.

“But nothing to seriously worry about. Truly. It’s all good folk working at the estate. The Master takes care of the help, and we take care of each other.”

“Huh,” Armie had mused. “And the courtesan?”

“Oh, I don’t know much about him really. Neither does a lot of help- I’ve only about seen him no more than once or twice around the estate. Seems to spend a good chunk of his time alone when he’s not on the Master’s lap.”

“I see.”

“Wouldn’t worry much about it. Courtesan’s- they come, collect a pretty penny, and go. This one ought to be no different.”

He recalled this conversation as he entered the music room, the door swinging open on its hinges with such ease that it barely made a sound.

Armie was immediately met with an unexpected sight, and he had to jump to stop the door from slamming shut behind him and disturbing the peaceful image of his student-to-be asleep on the loveseat nearest to the piano. This young Omega was laying on his side on the velvet upholstery, shoes still on and thin arms delicately tucked up next to his chest, in a manner that made the loveseat look so much larger than it was. Armie closed the door to the music room behind him without ever taking his eyes off the Omega, all while a hundred things crossed his mind.

_This is him, yes?_

_This is the Omega-of-the-house and not just some stranger that’s wandered in and mistaken the loveseat for a public bench?..._

_Is he really asleep? But why here…? Should I wake him? Should I scold him?..._

_Should I leave?..._

_Leave with a note promising my return once he decides that my presence our allowed lesson time is worth his wakefulness?..._

_Leave him without a word and try again tomorrow?_

There was, however, but one overwhelming thought that clouded Armie’s head as much as he tried to toss it to the side- the initial thought that crossed his mind at the moment of his entrance. Even in this silent, peaceful repose that the Omega assumed on the loveseat, Armie was utterly entranced by him. The image of the young boy’s tiny frame nestled under the glow of the afternoon sun, the light filtering through the leaves and casting little shadows that fluttered across his youthful face, seemed to cast a spell on Armie. Was this confirmation of the rumors that Armie had always known surrounding male Omegas and their irresistibly alluring energy? This sleeping Omega seemed to emanate some kind of otherworldly beauty- one that Armie consciously had to tell himself not to fall victim to. Although the Omega was no more than a few years his junior, Armie had an authority over him as his teacher that could not be dissolved by any sort of lust or desire. Armie had to be professional, and he immediately buried any intrusive feelings of lust or desire that tried to sneak past him. Besides, this boy was an Omega, and he belonged on the streets no more than he did on this loveseat.

Armie quietly padded over to the piano and picked the portfolio of music off of the lid that which the boy had etched his own name into the corner in red ink. _Timothée Chalamet._

He began to sort through the assortment of songs while keeping a cautious eye on the sleeping boy in the corner.

_Waltz in G_

_Intermezzo_

_A Boat on the Ocean_

The portfolio was stacked with brief, simple pieces. The boy obviously had a bit of musical training, as was customary for well-trained Omegas that sought a wider array of marketable skills other than performing oral sex. He shifted through the music until he came across a piece of handwritten music that which the words _“Chanson Folklorique Française”_ were written in the boy’s own penmanship atop. The piece contained only a simple melody, no more than a few lines long. Had he written this himself?

Armie glanced again at the sleeping boy to see that he no longer was so, and Armie was met with kind, soft green eyes that studied him curiously beneath sleepy lids and thick frames of lashes. The Omega was still laying on his side in the same position as when Armie walked in, and his face quickly shifted from sleepy curiosity to sheepish embarrassment at the moment he realized that it was his new professor that had found him asleep in the middle of the afternoon.

“Oh!” Armie jumped in surprise, but only a little. The Omega sat up quickly and nervously fixed his tussled brown curls and now wrinkled shirt, the apples of his cheeks turning a rosy shade. He stood and approached his teacher with a timid look on his face, seeming to anticipate a scolding.

“I-… Umm…”

“Armand Hammer!” Armie shot his hand out in an almost embarrassingly overzealous manner, if only to quickly dispel the awkwardness of the situation and console the boy. “Or rather, Professor Hammer, as you may address me,” He added, gathering himself. _Professionalism_ , he thought.

“And I’m Timothée.” The sound of his own name out loud sounded like some sort of mysterious incantation, and Armie found himself curiously twisting the syllables around in his head before shaking the thought away. Timothée then accepted his handshake with both hands, his small, delicate palms taking Armie’s one large hand.

“I’m sorry about this, I-I came in early to see the piano and before I knew it…”

“Don’t linger on it,” Armie said, wondering if he sounded too harsh when he said so. He nodded towards the velvet loveseat behind the boy and added, “With fine furnishings like this, I don’t believe it far-fetched to be tempted to sleep on every other upholstered thing in this estate.”

The young Omega smiled shyly and exhaled quickly through his nose so as to stifle a giggle. He looked at the older man with relief and sincere gratitude, and Armie felt an awkward sense of unease, as if his preexisting prejudices towards Omegas threatened to argue with the seemingly sincere kindness of this young boy.

“Ah, yes- indeed,” Timothée nodded in agreement, his brown curls bobbing up and down as he spoke. “I did have a bit of a rough n—”

He bit his tongue, and Timothée’s warm smile disappeared and reappeared within the same second.

“I had trouble sleeping,” Tim corrected himself, his tone a little drier now.

“Ah. Same as I’ve. But again, nothing to linger on as long as your sleeping through our lesson time doesn’t become a habit. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And to you, sir.”

Armie saw Timothée’s now cautious and suspecting green eyes look to the portfolio in his hands while he busied himself with the remaining wrinkles in his shirt.

“May I ask?”

“Yes?”

“This piece, this one here,” Armie turned the handwritten page of music towards Timothée and handed it back to him. “Did you compose this?”

“Oh that? No, no, no… This is an old folk tune that my former piano teacher once documented for me- I remember hearing it in my youth, although I can’t remember where.”

Timothée casually traced the inked-in title with his finger, “’ _Chanson Folklorique Française’._ French folk song.”

“Huh.”

“That title is about as specific as it gets- I can’t remember the name.”

Timothée shrugged and seemed to look longingly at the lines of music, as if to try and pull old memories out of the ink itself. Armie searched Timothée’s face while he did so and recognized a brief flash of nostalgia and somberness in the lines of his face. It made Armie sad to see it so.

“Anyway,” Timothée said, looking back to his professor. His mouth curved into a polite, thin-lipped but genuine smile, and the sadness in his eyes retreated. “Shall we begin then?”

Armie was caught off guard by the unpredictable, although seemingly infinitesimal shifts in Timothée’s mood. Their brief conversation was colored by the many different nuances in Timothée’s tone and choice of words, and wrinkles of worry and regret were quickly chased away by laugh lines and kind smiles. Armie found Timothée difficult to follow and difficult to decipher, but he admired his honest sincerity if not his inability to stabilize whatever volatile emotions he might he at war with.

Whether it be the sincerity of Timothée’s green eyes or the ever-expressive palette of emotions that Timothée was capable of invoking, there was something about their initial meeting that roused an irrepressible curiosity and unexpected affinity towards this young boy in Armie.

“Let’s.”

With that, Timothée took to the piano bench.


	3. High Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothée and Armie silently seek solace in each other during the obnoxiously grand and pompous dinner party that the Master of the house throws for his aristocratic friends. Following Timothée’s obvious fixation with Armie during the dinner, Master Luca loses his patience with Timothée and resorts to violence and fear to manipulate him after all the guests leave.

### Chapter 3

By the time their hour together was up, Armie and Timothée knew not very much more about each other than they had an hour before. Armie learned that Tim could read music, although not terribly well. Tim learned that Armie was a talented performer and a less talented teacher as he often failed to explain concepts in a clear enough manner for Tim to understand thoroughly, but Timothée followed the best that he possibly could while simultaneously pushing aside the lingering humiliation of his professor finding him asleep on the music room love seat that afternoon.

Timothée decided to spend the last hour of free time before dinner in the reading room closest to the dining hall. There, he could at the very least be alone in his thoughts and browse the dozens of titles that lined the walls in the case that he found himself unable to concentrate long enough to read anything substantial.

On his walk over to the reading room, Timothée pondered whether his piano professor could detect the traces of discomfort in his own demeanor. Such discomfort was, among other things, a consequence of his preoccupation with the sleeves of his shirt and whether they had ridden up enough to reveal the evidence of last night’s session with Luca as well as the dull headache that Timothée had been experiencing since he’d woken up, which had been the reason for his falling asleep on the loveseat as an attempt to nap away the pounding aches that had ensued on his walk over to the music room.

Whatever discomfort Timothée had felt during his lesson was a direct effect of something that had happened the night before, and he might have been able to pinpoint whatever that particular facet was had anything stood out to him as unusual during his session with Luca. As far as Timothée was concerned, last night was like any other night. Luca had come into his room, having found the Omega already wet and hard with sexual need, tossed him around until he screamed, and finished his business with him by midnight, leaving Timothée sweating and panting in his sheets with his head dizzy and distorted from sexual satisfaction and overstimulation.

Timothée arrived at the reading room and scanned the shelves of fiction for something light-hearted to sample while humming a tune he’d listened to Professor Hammer play for him ( _“It should be a little lighter like this- touch the keys, don’t hammer them…!”)_. The previous afternoon, he’d stumbled across a book regarding the history of Omegas and why their place in society was so polarized and controversial, and this read proved to be quite depressing for Timothée.

While scanning the pages of a novella, he heard the door to the reading room swing open. Timothée turned and saw the Master of the house making his way towards him. He donned a tight-lipped smile and carried a small stack of thickly-bound books under one arm.

“There he is,” Master Luca announced proudly. “My beautiful Omega.”

Master Luca carried himself in his usual manner, taking long, leisurely strides towards Timothée and emulating a confident yet casual air about him. The Master, as busy as he always was, was never in a rush to go or to leave or to do anything in particular. Every movement of his was slow and deliberate, as if the entire world and everyone within it were perpetually on _his_ time. As the head of the house and head of an empire of such breadth and power, this much was true. There was no more powerful figure in the estate than him.

On the contrary, Timothée, despite being one the Master’s prized possessions, had some of the least amount of influence or power on anyone in the estate: Male Omegas were still at the lowest level of the social hierarchy. Timothée was more a prize than a person, and here on the estate as much as anywhere else, his only leverage for attaining any sense of respect or decency was heavily dependent on his Master and his Master’s satisfaction with Timothée’s talents.

“Luca,” Timothée purred, as he was the only one allowed to call him as such.

“Believe it when I say that I simply could not wait another minute to be in your company,” Luca said, setting his books down on an end table and pulling Timothée’s narrow hips toward him. The Omega giggled in a modest manner and tilted his head back, exposing the soft, delicate skin of his neck to his Master. Without hesitation, Luca lunged at the sweet swath of skin below Timothée’s jaw, eventually trading affectionate little pecks for more aggressive kisses. All while tasting and biting away across Timothée’s collarbones, Luca ran his hands up and under the boy’s untucked shirt and grabbed at his tender, bare back.

Timothée watched his Master carelessly tear a button off the top of his collar with his mouth but didn’t dare interrupt Luca’s ecstasy by mentioning it. He made a mental note to ask a servant to mend the seam tomorrow during the laundry collection.

“Had you missed me today?” Luca growled. “Had you thought of me and touched yourself while I was gone?”

“Yes, yes…” Timothée sighed, and his breath hitched when his Master suddenly lifted him by his hips and sat him on top of an end table. Luca caressed the Omega’s face with one hand, tracing over Timothée’s pink, plush lips before sliding his fingers between them. The young Omega closed his eyes and lolled his head back, moaning softly and sucking lazily on his Master’s fingers while Luca began to undo the buttons of the boy’s trousers. Then, an unexpected and inexplicable flash of Professor Hammer's face crossed Timothée’s mind, lasting no more than a fraction of a second.

“Show me,” Luca said. “Show me how much you missed me.”

Timothée did.

~~~

Dinner at the House of Guadagnino was livelier than usual as some of the members of the Master’s aristocratic circle had caught word that a newly hired and splendidly talented pianist was to provide dinner entertainment that night. By 7pm, a sea of high-browed socialites populated the opulently decorated feasting table, where roasted meats, exotic dishes, and elegant cakes were laid out for all. Timothée’s seat at the crowded table, as he’d silently be grateful for the entire dinner, was situated opposite to the grand piano that Armie was playing on. It took only a slight angling of his head to be able to clearly see Professor Hammer’s profile from his chair, and Tim couldn’t keep himself from constantly reaching down to adjust his left pant leg if only to orient Armie into his direct line of sight for a brief moment.

At the same time, Armie’s focus was constantly challenged by the fact that he was overly aware of Timothée’s presence in the room, and he couldn’t help but feel as though he were catering every note to Timothée’s particular liking. In this crowded hall of such grandeur and luxury that which swarmed with the rich smells of haute cuisine and the mindless chatter of the aristocrats, Armie and Timothée were unknowingly drawn solely to one another by what they both had decided was an obsessive, although harmless sort of curiosity with the other.

“Timothée?”

“Timothée.”

Timothée entrancement was interrupted by his Master’s calling from the seat next to him. His name sounded harsh and of slight annoyance the second time he heard it, and Timothée turned to realize that Luca was attempting a toast with the wine that had just arrived. He picked up his glass and apologized quickly with a sheepish smile as Armie finished his piece so as to allow the Master to speak.

“Ahem,” Master Luca announced. “Now that I’ve the undivided attention of everyone, I’d like to make a small toast to our newest arrival.”

Luca gestured, and everyone in the hall turned with curious eyes towards Armie on the piano bench. Armie beamed confidently and pivoted around to smile at all the dinner guests, but when his eyes seemed to bounce right past Timothée’s admiring gaze, Timothée felt a small tinge of disappointment. Was Armie avoiding his eyes, or was Tim imagining it so?

“A man of talent, intelligence, and class; I am graciously pleased to introduce Professor Armand Hammer, who has accepted our invitation to join us at this grand estate as the head court musician.” Luca toasted, and the dinner guests responded with the clinking of glasses and nods of kind approval.

_Head court musician?_ Timothée thought, lifting his glass. _What does that even mean?_

“Timothée,” Luca called. He smiled politely at Timothée and took the glass of wine from his Omega before calling a server to bring him his “sample”.

“I’ve something special for you to sample,” Luca told him, and Timothée responded with a questioning, curious look that Luca ignored. The master instead nodded across the room towards Armie to signify his carrying on of the music. “It’s something we’ve been working on, I trust you’ll enjoy it.”

Whoever _we_ were and for whatever reason why _they_ desired Timothée to sample _whatever_ it was that Luca was regarding at that very moment was unknown to him, and for some reason, Timothée didn’t care. The overwhelming sights and sounds of the room were suddenly parted by the familiar melody that Armie was carving out on the piano. It was his melody, his _“Chanson Folklorique Française”,_ that now filled the grand hall. Now ornamented with rippling chords and rich harmonies, Armie had transformed the simple melody into a swooning ballad. His song, which was now both of theirs, seemed to resonant off the ornately-carved details that clung to the paint of the ceiling and penetrate just as deeply into the floorboards beneath Tim’s shoes.

Timothée was so entranced by this rendition of his beloved folk song that he didn’t even realize that his glass had returned, now filled with a pink and bubbly liquid, until after the piece was finished. In the corner of his eye, Luca seemed to be watching Timothée and waiting for him to sample his drink.

Timothée peered into his glass and wafted in the bittersweet scent of rye and ambrosia. After observing the pace at which some of the dinner guests were beginning to finish up and gather their things to leave, he grew increasingly anxious at the thought of drinking this brew right then and there. It seemed much too early for such a brew, and Timothée couldn’t bear the thought of Professor Hammer catching a glimpse of him, hot and horny and squirming in his chair with dark, dilated pupils, should the ambrosia happen to take effect before his dismissal from the dinner table. He glanced back up at Armie as if to look to him for an answer, but he was already engrossed in a new tune.

“Timothée,” the Master of the house called once again, after bidding farewell to a few dinner guests from his chair.

“Aren’t you going to try a taste, Timothée? I surely can’t let you run off for the night before you do!” Luca laughed, although Timothée wasn’t sure how much of a joke his intention in saying so was.

Timothée smiled politely and tilted the glass into his mouth without actually allowing any liquid to flow past his lips.

“Oh Timothée,” Luca chuckled again before speaking with an oddly crisp tone, every word spoken so deliberately so not as to have to repeat himself again. “I surely can’t let you run off for the night before you have a little more.”

~~~

Two of Luca’s close acquaintances were the last to leave the dining hall, and even Armie had been long dismissed without bidding more than a polite and seemingly restrained smile to Timothée.

Timothée’s game of pretending to sip from his huge glass continued on until only the Master and his Omega were left alone in the dining room. As he knew his Master wouldn’t dare to act rashly in front of his dinner guests out of impatience, Timothée figured he would wait until everyone left to explain to Luca that he simply couldn’t allow the taste of the ambrosia to cloud his mind, thus potentially causing both him and his Master any embarrassment in front of the guests.

“Luca,” Timothée started. Luca stood from his seat while Timothée remained, and he walked around to the other side of the table. “May I please ask that you not be vexed with me, please allow me to explain that—”

“Drink it.”

The Master looked stone-faced at his Omega. Timothée felt shame wash over him at the displeasure of his Master over his actions, though this was quickly followed by a sense of betrayal and confusion, then resentment.

“I told you to drink it.”

Timothée didn’t stir—his resentment was swiftly chased away by fear.

The Master, in a sudden burst of pent-up rage, picked up an empty wine glass off the table and whipped it past the Omega, allowing it to miss his head by a few feet and shatter against the wall behind him. Timothée flinched in shock and quickly picked up the cup of rye and ambrosia with both hands, his green eyes wide with fear.

“…Timothée, won’t you finish your cup already so we can prepare for bed?” Luca said calmly. His face was unreadable.

After a brief moment, Timothée went on to chug the entirety of the glass within the next minute, stopping only once to catch his breath so as to avoid choking. Timothée felt sick and bloated at the second that he placed his empty glass back down on the now-littered dining table before his sickly shame was quickly succeeded by the sudden burning desire for sex.

This brew stirred something in Timothée that couldn’t simply be explained in words or actions. He suddenly wanted to beg his Master for forgiveness, to plead and promise unquestioning obedience from that moment on if only to be fucked senselessly by him right then and there. He felt as though he needed to fulfill his societal duties in the only way that he knew Omegas could—he needed to be fucked like the purely sexual creature that he was.

“That wasn’t so terribly bad, was it?” Luca smiled.

“Now, shall we prepare for bed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kind comments !!  
> :)
> 
> Also sorry for turning Luca into some evil caricature, I needed a villain for this story and he had the coolest sounding name
> 
> I bear no ill will towards Luca guadagnino!


	4. Flashbacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothée and Armie’s relationship deepens over time as Armie slowly begins to humanize and understand him. When Armie conjures up the courage to ask Timothée to meet him after dinner, Timothée offers a different course of action that could prove to have risky and unprecedented consequences.

### Chapter 4

_“You haven’t been as peachy as you had been since our first lesson,” Professor Armand Hammer had asked halfway through the last lesson of their first week together. “Is everything okay?”_

_“I don’t believe you’ve ever really seen me peachy,” Timothée answered in an innocent tone from his position on the piano bench._

_“Hmm, I have to disagree. I don’t think I’ve detected a single smile of sincerity since that first day.”_

_“Since you’re being frank with me—I apologize if I’ve seemed off-putting lately. Shouldn’t we get back to the song?” Timothée’s stubbornness was beginning to irk Professor Hammer._

_“You’ve played that same line incorrectly the past three times that you’ve played the piece through,” Armie wandered away from the piano and gazed out at window at the terrace adjacent to the music room. “I’m not sure how much productivity can come out of this lesson if you’re focus is not entirely here.”_

_“I_ am _focused—I’ve just not been feeling so well since the night of the Master’s dinner party, and so I haven’t been practicing as much as I should.”_

_Armie thought back to that first night, recalling the odd, troubled look etched onto Timothée’s face at Armie’s parting. While he might have expected that Tim would have commented on Armie’s rendition of his_ “Chanson Folklorique Française” _during the dinner, he had bid nothing more than a polite “goodnight” from his seat next to the Master when Armie was dismissed. Armie recalled feeling a slight of disappointment when Timothée failed to recognize or mention his rendition, and Armie retained too much pride to bring it up at this point. As if he needed validation from the Omega-in-waiting regarding his musical talents._

_“I don’t know how much I believe that,” Armie asserted, and he found himself feeling like he was trying too hard to pry further information from the boy. He wrote these thoughts off as symptoms of his burning curiosity regarding the boy and the personal facets of his life. This curiosity, Armie thought, shouldn’t be confused with genuine care or concern for the boy. Right?_

_“Okay,” Timothée finally huffed, and he looked displeased both with himself and his professor, but this displeasure more so came across as shameful than it did bratty. Armie, tinged with a strange sense of guilt, suddenly felt as though his misinterpretations of the subtext in Timothée’s tone could be the reason for their strained understanding of one another. Timothée might have been troubled and unfocused, but he supposes that the boy wasn’t necessarily acting like a brat. Armie wondered if the pre-existing notions he’d imagined as male Omegas being bratty and spoiled were warping his interpretations of Tim’s actions and words._

_He walked over a few feet, swung the door to the veranda open, and stepped into the doorway while turning to speak to Timothée behind him._

_“You can be either join me out here or try the piece again, but you won’t sit on that bench and huff.”_

_Timothée stared at him with a slight look of resentment which then softened when Professor Hammer stepped further out onto the veranda while propping open the door even wider so as to allow Timothée to walk through the door while Armie held it for him. Tim went with the former option._

~~~

The summer heat had never proved more challenging for Professor Armand Hammer to work through. On one fine June afternoon of milder weather, Armie found himself sitting on a stone bench alongside Timothée in the east garden. He’d now been living at the House of Guadagnino for a little over 5 weeks now and had been adjusting to his newfound life of luxury at a snail’s pace—his adjusting to his residency as both the head court musician as well as Timothée’s private piano teacher only occurring at a slightly faster rate. Regardless, he had spent no more time with anyone else on the estate since his arrival than with his own piano student.

Timothée, having had invited Armie to join him in the east garden before dinnertime so as to enjoy the summer breeze that swept along through what Timothée had dubbed as “the butterfly path”, sat cross-legged next to Armie on the stone bench in the east gardens.

“You’ve been working on that same composition nearly 6 hours every day for the past week,” Timothée had argued earlier, just as they had finished their daily music lesson. “Did you _not_ just mention having been met with writer’s block all yesterday? Am I wrong in suggesting that a stroll in the east garden could offer _some_ sort of inspiration?”

“The mid-summer festival is _next week_ , Timothée,” Armie had answered from the piano while scribbling something into his manuscript. “The court musicians need this piece finished by the end of this week in order to ensure that they’ve enough time to practice before the opening ceremony.”

“I’m aware, but it’s already common knowledge that the Master adores and _will_ adore everything and anything you compose. You’ve gray hairs by the end of the week if you continue at this rate without rest, I know it. Look—see! _There’s one already!_ ”

Thus, this brief argument was what ultimately led Professor Hammer to find himself in awe at the butterflies that seemed to swarm this cobbled path of the east gardens on a summer day as fine as this one. He sat wondering when it happened that Timothée grew comfortable enough to argue with Armie about how he should spend his precious time leading up to the mid-summer festival and watched as a butterfly landed on his knee while Timothée spoke to the greenskeeper, a bookish-looking middle-aged man that went by the name of Stuhlbarg. The greenskeeper spoke to Timothée in a kind way and seemed to be one of the few people that Timothée considered a friendly acquaintance of his.

“Why is it that the butterflies flock to this path more than any other in the garden?” Timothée questioned. “Is it the peonies that attract them? Is it because of how overgrown they are that the butterflies love their abundance here?”

“They’re not overgrown,” Stuhlbarg answered. “They’re thriving.”

Armie looked at Tim, who was scrutinizing the bushes of pink peonies that which stretched over the path and up into the sky in an almost unruly manner.

“You seem unconvinced,” Stuhlbarg said to him. Tim squinted his eyes, as if to search for a clearer answer within the lines of the pink petals.

Stuhlbarg swept some loose stones off the path and brushed them under the bushes of flowers while continuing on.

“Everything else in this estate is already so perfectly folded, pleated, and stacked. Even the flowering bouquets that the Master orders for the interior of the castle are never with a single petal out of place. Why should this garden and every living thing in it necessarily have to adhere to that rigidity of the rest of the estate? This garden—these flowers—breathe and live and think for themselves as nature does. They have their own right to grow as they will.”

Timothée looked on at the peonies while imagining each flowering head as having its own character and personality; one perhaps preferring the clouds and rain over the sun or one perhaps being rather prone to shriveling up when being tapped for its nectar while another opens its petals invitingly to any bee or butterfly that crosses its path.

“True beauty,” Professor Armand Hammer mused aloud, all while never taking his eyes off of Timothée. “Such as that which flourishes here in this garden, should not have to be trimmed back or molded into anything that anyone needs it to be.”

~~~

_“You played it fine just then. Am I wrong in suggesting that you seem nervous?”_

_Professor Hammer watched as Timothée huffed, dropping his hands limply from the keys in defeat and exhaustion._

_“Of course I’m nervous—with you breathing right over my shoulder in that manner, how am I to retain any semblance of focus when I play?”_

_“My apologies, perhaps next time I shall leave the room while you play and then come back in to offer my critique?”_

_“No, of course not…” Timothée sighed, failing to realize any solution to the stage-fright that plagued him whenever he was to perform before his professor. “I just don’t know how else to shake the feeling of your eyes on me— It makes me too nervous.”_

_Armie thought for a moment. Timothée’s skills were improving at a dramatic rate—he’d known from listening at the door as Tim practiced in the mid-afternoon. However, the boy’s performances during their lessons were too often characterized by shaky hands and missed notes._

_“Don’t think about me—just think about performing,” Armie said plainly. “Putting on a show. You know something about that, don’t you?”_

_“What do you mean?” Timothée’s eyes narrowed, and he looked in the direction opposite of where Armie stood. Armie was still as stone, realizing that even_ he _didn’t know by what he meant when he said those words. Did he say them to be hurtful? Why did he say them?_

_“Nothing,” Armie shook his head._

_“But what did that mean?” Timothée pursued, now turning to look at his professor. His green eyes suddenly unreadable, though they seemed to pierce into Armie’s own eyes in search of a brutally honest reasoning for his choice of words. Armie was taken aback by his own vulnerability in the face of this boy and could not bring himself to bear honesty with him. This “putting on a show” that which Armie had assumed would be of familiarity to Timothée was in reference to the performative nature of being an Omega courtesan. The act of behaving in an obscenely sexual way and yet feigning cutesy, youthful innocence was something that Armie had long associated with Omega courtesans. However, Armie seemed to detect nothing of this sort in the Omega at that moment. He saw nothing more than a confused and hurt young man sitting at the piano bench._

_“I’m sorry if I offended you—I meant nothing of an offensive sort when I said that,” Armie finally said in a guilty tone. “Any given performance is constituted by a vulnerability in the performer, a vulnerability that the performer must accept and perform through, regardless of their emotions or nervousness, in respect to the audience.”_

_Armie nudged him lightly, and Timothée stood from the piano and stepped to the side while Armie took to the piano bench. He began to play something—a mysterious-sounding melody sounding over thick, clunky chords. The piece sounded somber and grave as well as a little disorganized and confusing, like a drunken saloon singer lamenting over a lost love after one too many glasses of wine. The piece finished in a slightly awkward and anti-climactic sort of way. Timothée waited in confusion for this professor to speak._

_“That,” Armie said. “Was the first piece I ever wrote. I was 16 and didn’t know a thing about composing music. When I performed it for my professor at the time, he tore up the sheet music before I could even finish playing it, and I hadn’t played it for anyone else since.”_

_“So what is your lesson here?” Timothée said. “That anyone of great talent was once horrible at their art?”_

_Timothée pressed his hand to his mouth in embarrassment at the words that came from his own lips, and Armie let out a chuckle upon seeing this._

_“I just mean to demonstrate that without being vulnerable and allowing yourself to fail at times, you cannot grow and learn to become a better musician,” Armie said sincerely. “Do not recoil from your own mistakes and allow it to discourage you— I promise that your nervousness will eventually pass.”_

_“But you’ve been performing for so many years already,” Timothée answered. “That’s easy to say when such nervousness must seem so foreign to you as a seasoned performer.”_

_“Now, how can you know that? How can you know that I wasn’t nervous just then when I performed that for you?”_

~~~

The summer breeze was fleeting, and the monarchs on the butterfly path seemed to retreat back to their alcoves.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Professor Hammer said to Timothée as they walked back along the cobbled path.

“Thank _you_ for allowing me to share the wonders of this part of the garden with someone,” Timothée smiled, his eyes gleaming with genuine joy. “It’s always a pleasure to aid in your musical compositions, so long as you cite me as the source of your inspiration.”

Their eyes met, and Timothée immediately looked away shyly. “So, would you propose that this walk in the garden did indeed spark a new inspiration?”

“I believe it so,” Armie said. He picked off the tiny green leaf of an apricot tree as he ducked under its overarching branch. “As a matter of fact, I think I might already have the idea in my head as we speak.”

“That’s so?”

“Yes,” Armie paused before continuing cautiously. “—Actually, if you haven’t other plans immediately following dinner tonight. If you would so mind—I’d love it if you could—"

“Professor.”

Timothée stopped walked.

“I actually— I’ve my performance tonight. For the Master and his… Connoisseurs.”

“…Oh yes,” Armie said as he realized what it was that Timothée was speaking of. Timothée, as many Omega courtesans in high society did, was to perform a show for a small circle of wealthy aristocratic men. These men, many of which had paid a fine sum of money to have gained invitation, would attend Timothée’s private show in which he was to dance before them in a sexual, sensual way while donning some sort of revealing outfit.

“I recall I might have mentioned it to you,” Timothée said, watching at Armie dropped the apricot leaf from between his fingers. “If not for that, I would have absolutely accepted your invitation.”

“Yes,” Armie gulped. His face grew hotter and redder with every passing moment, and he knew not whether it were from shame, shock, or jealously.

“Yes, unfortunately I must prepare for my show immediately after dinner…” Timothée continued in an oddly slow voice. “As the show commences strictly at 9 o’clock in the Hall of Performative Arts.”

…

“The attendants are strictly of invite, so I’m not worried about too much of a crowd.”

…

“Which is nice—I even hear that there will be a doorkeeper present at the north entrance.”

…

“And that the _only_ doorkeeper will be present at that north entrance.”

…

“Leaving the south entrance, the entrance leading to the second level of the hall, completely unattended.”

…

“The second level of the hall, I hear, is also to be unattended by anyone.”

Armie looked around and then back at the boy, who refrained from meeting his eyes. What was Timothée suggesting in his tone? Was is that Timothée, his own student and mentee, was really offering hints as to how to attend his show undetected that night? As if he, for some reason, desired for Armie to come and watch his show in secret? And if these were the intentions, would Armie even risk such an action? Why would Timothée even think that Armie would desire to do as such? Would Armie…?

Timothée now looked back at Armie, his green eyes like daggers in the glow of the afternoon sun. He spoke with clear, unquestioning deliberateness.

“At 9 o’clock. Precisely at the stroke of the hour. In the Hall of Performative Arts.”

~~~

_“So why here?” Timothée had asked his professor during the hour between their music lesson and dinnertime on some rainy afternoon. He was curiously shifting through Armie’s portfolio of original compositions after being given permission to do as such._

_“I mean, with all these beautiful compositions—”_

_Armie scoffed from his desk._

_“—You could go anywhere! Anywhere anywhere anywhere…”_

_“What’s wrong with here?” Armie looked up from his notepad. Timothée was tracing his fingers along the binding of choral piece that Armie had never finished writing, and he shrugged his shoulders._

_“Too much rain. Cold winters. Social unrest within the sexual classes,” Timothée listed, most likely referring to the tensions in the Kingdom Lombardy that regarded a group of Omegas and Omega allies in their recent attempts to uproot some sort of rumored Omega slave trade. This uprising seemed not much more to Armie than another fruitless battle to Armie, as there had always been tensions amongst the sexual classes of Omegas and Betas in regard to the overbearing authority of Alphas in society and the exploitation of Omegas._

_“Social unrest?” Armie raised his brows. “I didn’t know you’ve much interest in any matter outside of the walls of this estate.”_

_“This estate doesn’t exist within a vacuum, Professor,” Timothée replied politely, although sounding slightly offended. He returned the choral composition to the shelf it lived on and sat back on the loveseat, looking distractedly at his nails and continuing in a dreamy yet determined sort of tone. “Besides, if I ever want to get out of_ here _, I have to know what’s going on out_ there _. I’m not going to live at this estate forever.”_

_“That’s so?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“And so…” Armie closed his notepad and watched the young Omega scrutinize the cuticles of his fingers, dry and ashen from the summer heat. “What exactly are your means of escape?”_

_“Professor. Please don’t mock me.”_

_“I’m not!” Armie chuckled, lending the boy a sympathetic smile._

_He wasn’t trying to mock—he had always had a genuine curiosity for Timothée and the reasoning behind his ways. The Omega had proved himself to be of more complex thought and emotion than Armie had ever seen in anyone, and he found Timothée’s way of explaining his own ideas and plans quite intriguing._

_“Are you always so quick to offense?” Armie asked cautiously, wondering if he should’ve rephrased his question in a seemingly less sarcastic manner. He felt a slight tinge of guilt at the suggestion that Timothée could only detect sarcasm where Armie intended sincerity._

_“No—Ouch!” Timothée picked a piece of dry cuticle from the nail of his ring finger, and it began to bleed. Armie, seeing the bead of blood form on the boy’s nail, instinctually left his desk to come to Tim’s side and offer his handkerchief._

_“Stop—you’re being too rough with it, don’t rub,” Armie said. He took Tim’s thin, delicate hand in his and applied a firm yet gentle pressure to the back of the nail. Timothée watched Armie’s face, the focus in blue eyes as firm and gentle as his touch._

_“…No—I’m not usually so quick to offense at all,” Timothée eventually finished, his voice now soft and sincere. Armie dabbed lightly at his nail before shifting the handkerchief to a clean side and returning the pressure to the boy’s wound. “Being at this estate as long as I’ve been, I was just beginning to think that I’ve forgotten how to differentiate sincerity and decency with anything otherwise. Forgive me.”_


	5. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothée prepares for his evening performance, and Armie makes a decision.

### Chapter 5

Timothée nestled himself into a corner of the reading room, tucking his knees up to his chest and breathing slowly and deeply while situated on the floor between two bookshelves in a way that would make it difficult for anyone to spot him. There remained 15 minutes before Timothée was to be seated next to the Master in the grand hall for dinner, as if Timothée could imagine it being possible to swallow down a single bite of dinner so immediately after he’d practically sprinted out of the east garden following the conversation that he had with Armie.

Timothée, against any logic or reasoning, had so blatantly invited Armie to sneak into his private show later that evening. And for what? To allow Armie to see him dance for the aristocracy like the Omega whore that he was? To make him writhe with jealousy at the notion that all those men would be watching him where Armie wouldn’t dare enter at the risk of getting caught? To dangle the suggestion that Armie could, should, and would potentially see him in such an obscenely sexual manner before his very eyes and lust for him in return?

Yes, it was true that Timothée lusted for his professor and desired reciprocity from him. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d been attracted to Armie since his first day at the estate and that his attraction towards Armie had only deepened in the weeks they had spent together. Between their time spent together in piano lessons, in the garden on peaceful evenings, and on the veranda of the music room in early mornings, Armie had slowly revealed a tender side of his once-seemingly intimidating character. This was the side that worried whether Timothée was sleeping well, the one that demonstrated a genuine curiosity about his thoughts and wishes and fears, the one that lent him kind and calming words whenever he found Timothée hiding in the music room from the aristocratic fellows of the Master. Yet despite Timothée’s desire for Armie to see past his deplorable role as the Omega courtesan of the house, Timothée felt like he’d now regressed back into the image of the Omega whore that Armie initially saw him as by speaking in such a crude and suggestive way. Timothée had exploited his own sexual desirability—the one facet of his identity as a male Omega that he had always imagined as being his only source of power or leverage in any given situation—in order to gain the lust of his own professor.

Timothée, now overwhelmed with guilt and shame, tucked his face into his arms and wept hard, heaving sobs. This tornado of emotions—the lust for his professor, the feeling of powerlessness, and the guilt of using his sexuality to coax and manipulate Armie—swirled around in his head, dizzying and distressing him to the point where he wanted to climb to the highest tower on the estate and leap from its windows.

He wanted to remain in the reading room for the rest of this life, but that was in no way an option. The Master would eventually send someone to come looking for Timothée should he not arrive at dinner, and he’d eventually be sought and scolded. After making a silent deal with himself, Timothée rubbed his eyes and stood shakily from his spot on the floor. He decided that regardless of what should happen, regardless of whether he’d see Armie in the hall that night, and regardless of whether Armie would ever look at him the same way, Timothée would remain resilient. His role in society as a transient, disposable male Omega had aided in his developing an ability to move on and away from intimate relationships should the risk of being hurt, betrayed, or abandoned ever follow suit. Male Omegas were made to feel as though they were useful for little more than sex and lust, and because Timothée had decided that anything beyond _that_ was beyond his ability to withstand, he would be ready and willing to dissolve any and all feelings towards Armie should the risk present itself.

With that deal in mind, Timothée smoothed out his shirt, sucked in a deep breath, and left for the dining hall.

~~~

“Let me know if this is too tight.”

Timothée’s nurse, an omega girl of similar age that went by the name of Esther, was tying the black ribbon of his wine-red halter blouse snuggly behind his neck.

“ _C’est parfait_ ,” Timothée responded in French. Esther took comfort in knowing that her dependent could speak and understand her own native tongue, and a faithful comradery had developed out of their ability to communicate so openly with each other over the weeks that Timothée had been living at the estate. Out of anyone else in the house, there was no one that Timothée confided in and identified with more than he did Esther due to their mutual origins in the French countryside as well as their mutual identities as Omegas.

“Is it that you are not nervous?”

“Well, I certainly _was_ very nervous,” Timothée said quietly, touching his finger to the edge of his pink-painted lips and recalling his inability to sit still and savor any of the roast he’d been served at dinner. “But I’ll settled down since dinner, and I believe I’m well-prepared.”

“ _Oui,_ of course you are.”

Esther lent him her signature smile, sincere and soft as ever, while she combed the boy’s hair from his face and arranged the curls to fall in various ways. It wouldn’t be incorrect in suggesting that Esther’s gentle hands and calming presence while pampering and prepping Timothée for his show was particularly therapeutic for his nerves.

“If you would like to know, I don’t believe that I have ever quite seen the Master so fond of any Omega than he is of you. There could be no possible way that you could do _anything_ on stage that the Master would find underwhelming.”

“You would say so?”

“ _Certainement._ Have you often seen many of the same Omega courtesans attached to the same Masters at multiple high society social events?”

“I guess not…”

“See— Plenty of the Masters of the aristocratic estates, at least here in the Kingdom Lombardy, have a number of Omegas that they circle through.” Esther brushed over Timothée’s neck and jaw with a translucent powder that smelled of jasmine and continued to speak in the same French dialect. “To see it that you’ve the sole Omega of the house for two months now and that the Master has brought you to an astounding number of social events as his companion—why, that can’t be without significance!”

The Omega blushed before standing from his seat at the vanity while Esther gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze. Her kind, comforting manner had no place in an environment as such as the estate, and Timothée wondered how she’d sustained such warmth in such a cold and austere place.

“How long have you worked here? Had you always attended to the Omegas-in-waiting?”

“No, I was a maid for a year before I was able to take classes in town and apply to be a nurse,” Esther said while tucking away the powders and combs into the vanity drawers. “But I’ve been here almost two years now.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not terrible,” She shrugged and sat on back on her stool. “I hear they’re building a school in the next town over—I’ll be applying to work there once I’ve saved enough money.”

Timothée imagined how nice it might be to be able to afford to take classes, choose a respectable career, and move away to wherever one should desire. Even though Omegas were the lowest of the sexual classes, it remained that female Omegas were generally more respected and accepted in society than their male counterparts and that there were plenty more opportunities for female Omegas to mobilize and succeed. Their nuanced androgyny, generally small stature as compared to male Betas and Alphas, and their ability to bear children caused male Omegas to be written off as “the defective sexual class”.

“Would you take me with you should you leave this estate?” Timothée mused.

“Would I? I would, yes. I imagine you’d make a lovely companion on the road.”

Timothée then examined himself in the full-body mirror across from his dresser, now mulling over his resemblance to a porcelain doll what with his done-up face and naturally pale complexion. The silhouette of his outfit, which consisted of a wine-red, backless halter and form-fitting black pants, highlighted the lithe and slender nature of his body and was rather fairly comfortable for dancing.

“You know you needn’t be so kind to me, Esther,” He said softy with a gentle smile.

“I know, _ma chérie_ ,” Esther said while scrutinizing her own reflection in the mirror and fixing a loose strand of hair back into her braid. “Kindness is hard to come by in his estate, and there is no one that deserves it more than they are granted than you.”

~~~

Armie sulked in the bar room after dinner, watching the bartender top off his 4th glass of whiskey and listening to the drunken chitchat of the off-duty servants and maids that lingered near. Being that it was Friday evening and that the guests of the Master were already seated and drinking fine brandies in the Hall of Performative arts, much of the household help had taken to the bar room adjacent to the dining hall as a way to let off some steam. Armie, having had easily made friendly acquaintances with many of the other estate workers due to his confident charisma, would normally be at ease with everyone surrounding him if it not for the circumstances that plagued his mind that night.

There remained 20 minutes until Timothée’s private show would be starting in the Hall of Performative arts, and Armie was in no state to go. It wasn’t in the case that Armie was terribly drunk, but after musing on his earlier conversation with Timothée all evening, he had concluded that he couldn’t bear to appear at the show despite his own dark desires.

Nonetheless, Armie desired _nothing_ more than to attend. The lust that he’d developed for this young Omega over the past couple of weeks was unlike any other pull that he’d ever known, and even more so, the peculiar sense of protectiveness that he’d simultaneously developed for the boy had manifested itself into a powerful desire to be in close proximity to Timothée if only to provide a sense of safety that Armie felt only _he_ could provide. These high society vultures that would be watching Timothée on stage knew not a single thing about the boy that Armie cared so deeply about. How might they react should Timothée fall or trip or fail before them? What if they should jeer at him at the moment that anything goes awry during the performance?

Armie felt overcome with guilt at the thoughts he’d twisted around in his mind in order to justify his desire to attend the performance. No—the desire to attend his private courtesan show was not exemplary of any sort of protectiveness towards the performer. The show was to be obscenely degrading, and Armie would be committing an act of great disrespect for Timothée by attending. The desire was rooted in nothing more than _lust_ , he had concluded.

These notions were complicated by the fact that Timothée had obviously desired Armie’s attendance at the show, even at the risk of being caught, with the only logical reason for such a suggestion being the fact that Timothée lusted for Armie in return and wanted to foster their mutual lust by performing in front of him.

_‘God,’_ Armie thought. _‘What a_ slut _.’_

How it pained him to think such a thing, but he forced himself to believe it. Perhaps his deeply-rooted resentment towards male Omegas could never truly be worked away, and perhaps it was just so that Timothée would eventually act out in this way and confirm Armie’s initial frame of mind towards him. He imagined Timothée before the crowd of hotly-bothered aristocrats, giggling and teasing and grinding on stage before their lustful, greedy eyes while he tossed back the remainder of his whiskey.

After a moment, Armie had decided to head out for a cigarette and was about to leave when he perked up at the sound of Timothée’s name.

“—an older one, but it’s up for anyone should they want a taste!”

Armie only caught the last bit of the bartender’s statement as he spoke to a man servant.

“What’s that?” Armie spoke up.

“Ah, we were just talking about the new liquors the Master’s left to us,” The bartender said. “Something of an older product of his work. It’s not the most appropriate thing, but if anyone so desires…”

“What is it…?”

The bartender plucked a brandless liquor off the shelf in a dark-colored bottle and placed both the bottle and a shot glass onto the bar before him.

“ _‘Ambrosia no. 5’_ ”, He said, pouring a small amount of the liquor into the glass. A tiny layer of bubbles sat on the rim of the shot glass atop the unnaturally pink liquid.

“What?” A man seated next to Armie laughed. Armie recognized him as the coachman that first brought him into the estate by his distinct moustache and thick, countryside accent. “That looks ungodly! What is it, unicorn piss?”

Armie gave a genuine laugh at the coachman’s remark as he too examined the glass, chuckling at his own disbelief at the perfectly pink liquor and feeling a cozy warmth from the whiskey and from the friendly company that surrounded him.

“What makes it special?” The coachman asked.

“Hmm… Can’t say that I know the exact reason,” The bartender shrugged. “I’ve heard different rumors. Some say it aids in… dysfunctionality.”

“No—I’ve heard something of it, too,” The coachman said, keeping a curious eye on the liquor while taking a sip of his own glass. “Heard it myself that a sip of that will make any woman wild over you for ruttin’. Don’t know how that could be, but _I_ wouldn’t mind the risk!”

The coachman spoke had an odd way of using idioms that didn’t make much sense to Armie, but he was much too curious about the mysterious liquid at that point to question anything. He brought the shot glass to his nose and wafted in the slight smell of lavender and rye. The bittersweet scent that emanated from the glass reminded him of Timothée.

“Professor, you’re up for the risk tonight?” The coachman said in a jovial voice. “I’d suggest you findin’ someone in mind before you decide to shoot the shot. Who knows? Could be that you’ll be climbing all over _me_ at the moment after it hits!”

“Hah! Only in your dreams.”

Armie looked around the bar room at the other attendees. The colorful cast of characters that acted as the backbone of the estate grew rowdier and jollier with every passing minute with each person radiating their own unique sense of lightheartedness and cheer. This was not the usual cold, humorless crowd of aristocrat-pleasing machines that he had always imagined the help to be, and he felt guilty at ever imagining it so. Armie’s eyes fell on a young maid across the bar that he’d recognized in the halls of the estate. She was listening intently to the joke of another maid and threw her head back in laughter at the punchline, her curly hair bouncing over her shoulders at the motion.

Despite Armie’s current state after as many whiskeys that he’d downed, he probably still would’ve found the maid just as attractive if he were sober, and he was still bothered by a gnawing desire for intimacy after having tried to forget about Timothée and his ridiculous show.

“Got it,” Armie said confidently, although with slightly slurring words.

“You’ve decided? So be it!” The coachman said. “Another for me then as well!”

The bartender shook his head with an amused smile and poured a shot of rum for the coachman, who then took the glass into his hand while Armie took another look at the maid across the room. He returned his eyes to the pink liquid in his shot glass and then to the coachman and bartender, who had also poured a shot for himself.

“To good fortune!” The bartender winked. “And to all your dirty desires, gentleman!”

Armie lifted the glass to his lips and tossed the Ambrosia back as smoothly as he would a plain glass of water. In the next couple moments, he curiously waited for the effects to manifest and anticipated the maid across the bar leaping to his side within the next few moments. However, Armie was soon met by nothing of the anticipated sort and was instead met with the startling mental image of his own true desire: Timothée.

“Well?” The coachman asked.

“I—” Armie stammered. “I’ll return, I-I’ve just remembered something.”

In the next immediate moment, Armie found himself racing out of the bar room, leaving the bartender and coachman baffled. Like a rocket at full speed, Armie twisted his way down the winding hallways, past the opulent drawing rooms and luxurious lounges, and through a shortcut in the west courtyard in order to reach the Hall of Performative arts that was situated in the North quarter of the estate. No longer was his mind as dizzy and dull as it was a few moments ago—Armie no longer knew of or cared for anything of drunkenness or debauchery. Whatever effect that any of the other liquors had had on him were dissolved by the potent influence of the Ambrosia and its ability to pull Armie towards the Hall of Performance, if only to see the person he’d lusted for the most.

~~~


	6. Dancer in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothée dances at his debut performance, and not everything goes according to plan.   
> Then, Armie and Timothée both reach decisions regarding their feelings for each other.

### Chapter 6

The crowd in the Hall of Performative arts consisted of around thirty, wealthy-looking middle-aged men seated in front of the stage at round, dining-like tables that were placed there in particular for Timothée’s show. There sat approximately 3-4 men at each of these tables that which plates of cheese, bread, and fruit were placed atop alongside the bottles of brandy that which the men were able to serve themselves. Timothée, while observing the crowd of aristocrats through a small crack in the stage curtain, could hear how boisterous the conversations amongst them were growing over the sound of ice clinking around in glasses.

Although he couldn’t see the second level of the hall from where he peeked through the curtain, Timothée was certain that Armie was absent.

_‘He’s not to come,’_ He thought to himself. _‘I’m sure of it—and not I’ve not a care in the world! He’s no knowledge of what he’s missing out on anyway.”_

“Timothée,” The stagehand called from behind him. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes, in a moment,” He answered, and quickly returned to his knapsack that hung upon the nearest wall. From inside the knapsack, he fished out a tiny flask.

_‘Armie isn’t present—though I know he secretly wants to be.”_ Timothée untwisted the top of the flask and held it to his lips, inhaling the bittersweet liquor that smelled of lavender and rye. _“And so I’ll show them all everything that which Armie wishes he so badly could have seen.’_

Despite everything that Timothée had predicted, Armie was indeed nestled up against a backwall on the second level of the Hall of Performing Arts, crouching in the dark and waiting nervously for the show to begin. The ambrosia was drowning out every bit of reason and common sense in his system, and he couldn’t bring himself to flee the scene without at least getting _one_ glimpse of Timothée.

Armie stealthily maneuvered himself through the seats on the second level and peeked over the railing to catch a glimpse of the crowd of aristocrats that were seated on the first level while wondering how much each of them paid to watch Timothée’s show tonight. The men below him looked wealthy, powerful, and increasingly rowdy with every moment that passed. Armie could spot the back of Master Luca’s head from down below, and he wondered how he might act should Armie be caught infiltrating the private show. The Master had taken quite a liking for Armie and his musical compositions and had even invited him for tea a couple of times—Armie wishfully hoped that the Master wouldn’t punish him too terribly should Armie be caught, although there was no reasonable excuse that Armie could come up with that should explain his being there.

Before Armie could even begin to formulate some kind of convoluted excuse regarding his sneaking into the show, the sound of strumming guitars and lutes began from somewhere in the hall. He recognized it as a piece that he commissioned for the Master a couple weeks ago, although he had no idea that _this_ was the event that it would eventually be needed for. The music lilted on as the crowd of aristocrats began to hush, and a violin began to croon a sultry, exotic-sounding melody as the stage curtain lifted, revealing the star of the show.

On stage sat Timothée, sitting upright on a wooden chair with his back to the crowd. Armie could only make out his curly head of hair and what seemed like the tiny ribbon of his blouse fashioned at the back of his slender neck, and Armie begged from behind the railing of the second level for him to turn around. He thought of his mouth and his jaw and his lips and his nose and his green, green, green eyes, growing curiouser and curiouser with every passing moment, and yet Timothée didn’t stir.

_‘Turn around,’_ Armie begged. _‘Turn around, turn around, turn around…’_

The sound of the violin swelled, intensifying in a way that mirrored the near-breaking point of Armie’s unbearable desire for the young man on stage as he plead and prayed for just _one look_ at the face of the most beautiful Omega he had ever seen.

‘ _Please, please, please… Turn around, turn around…’_

Upwards and upwards did the sensuous timbre of the violin croon as the strumming and plucking of the guitars slowed almost to a halt as Timothée stood ever-so-slowly from the chair, rising with the volume of the music.

‘ _Turn around… Turn around, turn around, my love…’_

Every soul in the hall seemed to be holding their breath, and even the instrumental ensemble sounded, too, as though it were begging for Timothée— the sound stretching and reaching and growing until it reached a climax wherein the music stalled and the notes seemed to suspend mid-air.

_‘Turn around.’_

And Timothée pivoted, leading with his head and following through with his hips, to face the crowd. The entire crowd was enraptured in a daze of awe and astoundment at the unbelievable beauty and grace of the stunning Omega before them as Timothée, without ever shifting his eyes away from the crowd, lifted one knee onto the seat and stretched his thin, supple wrist over back of the chair, dragging his hand back towards him along the top of the chair in a slow, deliberate manner and then bringing it to his mouth. He blew a kiss to the crowd before flashing a demure little smile, his pink-painted lips curling up playfully while his green eyes remained dark and enticing, and the crowd erupted into a mass of applause and cheers and sighs while the music started up again, the rhythm of the band lilting along with the sway of Timothée’s hips as he swiveled them with the same smooth deliberation that which he moved the rest of his lithe, graceful body.

Armie was breathless. The notes of the music—of the song that he himself had composed so many weeks before—weaved through and around Timothée’s long legs and thin, supple arms, winding and twisting him around in a most sensual and natural manner. It was as if the Omega’s body was _made_ to move to this song.

The aristocrats in the crowd swooned and sighed at the sight of Timothée swiveling the chair around to face forward and grinding down onto it on one knee while allowing everyone a stunning view of his backside, the fabric of his pants clinging to the shape of his tight little behind. He then sat down backwards on the chair with each leg draped over either side of it, and with his back to the crowd, he pressed himself snuggly against the seat and looked coyly over his dainty shoulder at the crowd. A dreamy look was displayed on his face and his mouth was slightly parted, his tiny pink tongue poking shyly from between his wet lips. He lolled his head back and continued to roll his hips around rhythmically, shutting his eyes and letting his mouth fall open even wider, as if the sound of the music was entering him, controlling him, and making him dance in the way that he was.

After Timothée spun himself to face forward again, he began to sink down from the chair and, upon finding himself on the floor, blissfully rolled his head around and stretched his body out in a sensual pose.

It was at that moment that Timothée, through half-closed lids, finally spotted the top of a blond head poking from over the railing of the second level of the hall. If not for his awareness of the spectators in the crowd, some of whom were beginning to slur catcalls at Timothée, Timothée’s jaw would have dropped and eyes widened in shocking disbelief that Armie _had_ come and that he _had_ been watching his performance this entire time that he had been on stage.

Besides the shocking disbelief that required all of Timothée’s willpower to contain, he felt the slightest tinge of annoyance that he had falsely predicted Armie’s absence at the show and that Armie, the man that possessed so much potential to hurt Timothée, had now returned to the forefront of Timothée’s heart. Armie _had_ come for him.

At this instance, Timothée felt all the adrenaline in his body fuse with the ambrosia in his system, which had now reached its peak effect. The boy stretched his long, slender leg over the seat of the chair and traced his hand down the length of it while flashing a smile—not a fake, flirty, stage smile, but a genuine smile that pulled the corners of his lips up towards the creased little crows feet around his eyes.

From all the way on the second level of the hall, Armie could feel Timothée’s excitement radiating across the room, and he knew that he’d been seen. There was an obvious shift in his demeanor following the brief moment that Timothée had paused upon the angling of his head towards Armie’s position on the second level. Armie watched as Timothée rose from his spot on the floor after a few suggestive poses, and while swaying and swiveling his hips to the slow-moving rhythm of the music, he began to dance his way over towards the edge of the stage.

“Here he is!” Someone from the audience called, and this was followed by a succession of whistles and hollers. “Beautiful, beautiful!”

Timothée twirled around with a coquettish little pout on his face and then spun and spun again, twisting like an impassioned little whirlwind, before kneeling down at the edge of the stage, sensually tussling his curls about and grinding on his knees to the music.

“Attaboy! Come on over, gorgeous!”

Two inexplicable forces of magic were working upon the room—the spell that the music seemed to be casing on Timothée, and the spell that Timothée seemed to be casting on Armie. Armie was nearing tears at the overwhelming sense of desire that filled every inch of his being. He wanted to race down the stairs and scoop Timothée up, carry him away to the most remote corner on the estate, and tear the clothes from his beautiful body. He imagined his own mouth, his own lips, tasting and tracing every bit that smooth, milky skin, while reaching down for the button of his pants. In the shadows of the second level of the Hall of Performing Arts, who was to tell him otherwise?

And yet, Armie’s daydream was interrupted by a sudden ruckus that was occurring on the level below him. Timothée, who was still on his knees at the edge of the stage and only a mere few feet away from the audience, had a slight look of perplexity on his face while someone from the crowd was talking to him and lifting his glass of whiskey towards Timothée in a sort of gesture. Another man at the same table was attempting to argue with the other.

“Come on, beautiful,” One slurred at Timothée. “A tip for a tip?”

“What’s going on?” Someone else called. Timothée tried to ignore the distractions and continued to roll his hips around and sway to the strumming of the guitars and lutes. He began to position himself as if to prepare to stand and return to the center of the stage, but the man that had been arguing with another was now standing only inches from the Timothée.

The musicians were playing on through the piece, but Timothée’s seemed rather unfocused and uncomfortable before returning his attention to the rest of the crowd with a sheepishly flirty smile. Armie then watched Master Luca begin to stand and say something in a scolding voice while a large man servant emerged from somewhere and began to approach the boisterous men. The sound of the Master’s voice caught Timothée by surprise, and while he was distracted, one of men at the edge of the stage grabbed suddenly at Timothée and pulled off his left shoe, spilling whiskey on Timothée’s leg in by doing so and letting the glass shatter on the ground. Timothée yelped and started to stand too quickly than he was able, and he almost fell onto his side from the imbalance.

At this point, Armie was no longer as perplexed as Timothée was just a moment before. His face was steaming with white-hot rage, and he wanted more than anything to swing down from above and feed that awful man the full force of his own angry fist. Three or four other men had now joined the scuffle, scolding the one who’d assaulted Timothée with slurring insults and arguing senselessly with each other while two servant men began to disperse the crowd and escort the ringleader of the altercation away. The poor Omega, now flustered and mortified, looked to Armie on the second level while the music continued on, and with everyone’s attention in a thousand places, he twirled around and around again, swinging and swaying his body to the last lines of the music, and danced back to the on-stage chair. The music came to a close, and the dance ended with Timothée posing sensually upon the on-stage chair with a final toss of his bouncy curls.

Timothée stood, smiled, bowed, and blew kisses while the crowd cheered at him and jeered at each other, and Armie knew Timothée felt humiliated. Even from up on the second level, Armie could detect the dimple upon Timothée’s chin that appeared whenever he was trying to disguise a clenched jaw. This awful, unruly crowd of high society degenerates had humiliated the poor, sweet Omega before his own eyes. Even the Master had left in pursuit of the servants, whom were carrying away the man who had assaulted Timothée, before he had even finished his first bow, thus leaving Timothée alone to bear the humiliation on stage. The performer blew one final kiss, pivoted, and strutted off stage.

The immediate second that Timothée was out of view from everyone, he clutched his own hair and started to breathe fast and hard. Everything had been going so exceptionally well until the very last minute of the dance, and those last mortifying moments were all that consumed him. He thought of Armie having watched him get helplessly assaulted on stage and imagined the humiliating rumors that might spur among the aristocracy and across the estate—this was Timothée’s performance debut, and it had ended in disaster.

Although Timothée intrinsically knew that unruliness of his audience was out of his hands and therefore could not have been a direct result of anything he could be faulted for, he found himself purposely twisting the narrative so that only _he_ and _his_ lust for Armie was ultimately to blame for such disaster. If not for Timothée having spotted Armie in the crowd, perhaps he would’ve better retained his focus. Perhaps he wouldn’t have so carelessly wandered to the edge of the stage in order to elicit more of a reaction from Armie, and perhaps his show wouldn’t have ended as it did.

The stagehand cautiously approached the Omega and was about to rest an assuring hand on his shoulder when another servant appeared backstage.

“Timothée? I’ve to relay a message from the Master.”

Timothée could barely bring his own wide eyes to meet the servant. He was shaking in anger and embarrassment.

“The Master will be taking care of the altercation that occurred just moments ago and will be busy filing a formal persecution against the instigator—and so, he will not be in your company tonight,” The servant said with a bow of politeness. “That is all.”

Timothée nodded, and with that, he scooped up his knapsack and raced out of the backdoor of the stage with his one shoe on and his whiskey-stained pants. Without thinking, he escaped into the dim halls of the estate without any particular location in mind—he just needed to run away.

Armie was flooded with a rush of adrenaline, rage, and more than anything, the desire to be with Timothée, and he found himself racing down the stairs of the second level of the hall at the moment that the Omega had gone, having just barely escaped the rush of aristocrats that were leaving the lower level and jutting around a corner before he could be detected.

There around the corner was Armie met with the sight of the running Omega, already at the end of that hallway after having gotten a head start.

“ _Timothée_!” Armie yelled.

Timothée halted and turned at the recognition of his name on Armie’s tongue before immediately spinning back around, ducking around the corner, and continuing to race away from Armie at an even faster pace.

“Timothée!” Armie persisted. “Timothée, wait!”

Down the next hall did Timothée run at the speed of a whip, his face now scrunched and tear-stricken. How could he face Armie, after everything that had happened, and now in such an ugly and cowardly state? Why couldn’t Armie just leave him be?

Timothée was so tired from performing and so tired from racing, and Armie was gaining on him with every shallow breath that he took while twisting around the long hallways of the estate, past the opulent lounges and chambers, and eventually through the winding paths in the east garden.

“Timothée, please!” Armie called from not too far behind him. They raced past the butterfly path, where they had just been earlier that afternoon and where their romantic intentions and lustful feelings for each other could have so easily been swept underneath the overgrown peonies had it not been for Timothée growing so tired of locking his intimate desires away.

And now Timothée was so unbearably tired from running and running away, and he slowed to a stop at the end of the butterfly path that which opened up to a moon-bathed pavilion. Armie slowed similarly only a few feet behind him, and neither stirred while they both took a moment to catch their breath. The soundscape of the garden consisted solely of the buzzing of the crickets and the breathless panting of both men.

After a moment, Armie heaved a great sigh and began to step towards the Omega. Before Armie could even truly compose himself and come up with a reasonable explanation as to why he couldn’t keep himself from pursuing him through the estate grounds, Timothée spun around and met him at the halfway point, wrapping his arms around Armie and pressing his own open mouth onto his. Armie, at first surprised and then overcome with absolute bliss, kissed Timothée back with twice the passion and fell into submission at the dear and delicate Omega that was burrowing into him under the glow of the mid-summer moon, and the world seemed to still.

~~~


	7. The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothée and Armie finally rendezvous in the late hours of the night for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter everyone's been asking for... here's some dirty, filthy, nasty, smut.

### Chapter 7 

Timothée clung to Armie like a drunk clinging to the wall in order to keep from crumpling to the floor. He was exhausted, flustered, and more than anything, absolutely impassioned at having found himself within the arms of the man he’d desired for so many unbearable weeks. Tucking his head into Armie’s chest, Timothée had imagined that he’d finally unravel and break down into tears, although the opposite was true instead. He felt nothing but the comforting warmth of Armie’s embrace—All the doubts he’d had in regard to Armie’s reciprocity for his feelings had dissolved in that first kiss they shared, and Timothée felt as though his emotional armour had shaken all off during their chase into the east gardens, the metal plates clanging to the ground along the halls of the grand estate with every turn of each corner.

“Timothée…” Armie sighed and pulled away to look at him. His brows were furrowed with concern. “Are you okay? Are you alright?”

Tim blinked at Armie through his blissfully teary eyes.

“Y-yes,” He stammered. “I think I am. Although my performance… It was…”

“It was _beautiful!_ ” Armie said the word ‘beautiful’ in a short of whisper-shout. “ _You_ were beautiful. I didn’t know you were such a phenomenal performer—and with only a single shoe!”

“Stop that,” Timothée turned a deep shade of crimson before rolling his eyes and smiling softly. How could Armie have taken something that had traumatized him just moments ago and twist it around until it no longer pained him in the slightest? Armie’s kind and charming sense of humor was Timothée’s medicine.

“I’d no idea you would actually even attend.”

“I wasn’t going to but I—I had to see you.”

Out of worry that Timothée might think that his interest in the show was ingenuine, Armie decided to omit the fact that it was initially his consumption of the Ambrosia no. 5 that put him into motion. Armie, however, was sure that the ambrosia had worn out midway through Tim’s performance, and he needn’t not for any sort of substance to know that there was no one he had ever desired for in the way that he desired Timothée.

Timothée kissed Armie again, this time a little gentler and while allowing himself to fall into Armie. Armie, feeling his cheeks become wet with Tim’s tears, moved from his mouth to his cheeks and chin and jaw, peppering his face with kisses so as to stop his happy tears from falling any further.

“Armie,” Timothée whispered as Armie kissed and nuzzled his way down the Omega’s neck before returning to his lips. It was the first time he’d ever addressed Armie by his first name alone, and how Armie loved the sound of it. “ _Stay with me_.”

Spellbound by the breathlessness and begging determination in Timothée’s voice, Armie followed the boy as they navigated the dark halls of the grand estate, quietly making their way up to Timothée’s chambers.

~~~

Timothée locked the door of his room and peeked over his shoulder at Armie while doing so. Fortunately, Timothée’s chambers were situated in his own private wing of the estate, which consisted of a private drawing room, bathroom, terrace, and sunroom, and was separated by the rest of the estate by a large stairwell that led to another common room. This situation provided the utmost privacy for the couple, as Armie’s chambers were only down the hall from the chambers of Timothée’s other tutors. “Light the fire?”

Armie nodded and walked to the ornate fireplace, pausing briefly to examine the little old trinkets Timothée had lined up on the mantle. After his living in an Omega boarding house for much of his young adult life, Armie concluded that it’d make sense that Timothée wouldn’t have had many things that were valuable enough to bring into the estate when he moved in. Many of these personal belongings were little pieces of junk that garnered some sort of sentimental value to him—a handwritten note on the back of an old napkin, a birthday card on yellowing paper, a glass jar filled with old corks and bottle caps, a worn-out woven bracelet, a rusty figurine of a toy soldier. It made Armie sad to think of Timothée’s life before the estate, and he compared Timothée’s to his own privileged life, having grown up wealthy and as a male Beta.

Armie prepared the fireplace and watched the flames bloom over the firewood, casting a warm glow on the walls of Timothée’s luxurious bedroom.

“Armie,” He heard Timothée say.

Armie turned around to see the boy sitting in the middle of his bed, his hands fussing with the ribbon of his halter blouse while he looked up at Armie with curious, desiring eyes. Timothée looked so tiny and delicate in the center of his large bed, and the soft glow of the fire made his features look even softer as flickering shadows danced across his face. To Armie, the Omega looked like a piece of art.

“Let me help,” Armie said softly, coming to sit behind him on the bed and undo his blouse. The back of Timothée’s neck smelled of his cologne, the scent that lingered on his knapsack whenever he’d left it in the music room by accident. It was intoxicating to Armie, and it took most of his willpower to refrain from taking his mouth to the porcelain-white skin of his slender shoulders and neck.

“Luca won’t be meeting me tonight,” Timothée said.

“Oh?”

“He’s allegedly too busy prosecuting the man that assaulted me earlier. I just wanted to assure you that we’re safe—I promised you this.”

Armie shuddered internally at the thought of the Master walking in on them as the ribbon came apart and felt down the back of his blouse.

“But he won’t be coming tonight,” He finished. “I assure you.”

“And he comes to see you every night…?” Armie asked carefully, now undoing the small clasps that lined Timothée’s spine. He worked ever so slowly, feeling as though he might bruise the delicate young man should he act any more vigorously.

“Mostly, occasionally there will be a day or two in the week that he’s too fatigued to come.”

“Oh.”

Timothée heard the slightest tinge of envy in Armie’s voice, and he felt the last clasp of his blouse come undone. At that, Tim turned around to face Armie and removed his blouse while doing do. Armie had a dreamy and almost desperate look on his face that was quickly replaced with a dark, dark broodiness as his eyes traced along the boy’s bare body. He paused, and Timothée realized the reason for his hesitation no more than a moment later.

Timothée’s chest and stomach were decorated in blue and purple marks, bites, bruises, and scratches—evidence of the Master having already been all over Timothée. Of course, Armie had always known exactly what it was that the Master and Timothée did every night, but being met so suddenly with the evidence was all too startling for Armie. This was _his_ desired and _his_ deserving lover—Armie could no longer bear the thought of such a man making love to this boy, kissing and stroking him, and then putting him on display for the aristocratic degenerates to gawk at. Armie was solely repulsed by the Master’s careless and violent lust for Timothée rather than by Timothée’s body or the evidence that marked him.

“Armie…” Timothée started, his face breaking once again. He hadn’t even realized that Armie might have reacted in such a way, and his eyes began to well up with guilty tears as he watched the traces of disgust amass in Armie’s face. “I didn’t realize… I hadn’t…”

Like every time in the past, Timothée’s sudden vulnerability struck a chord in Armie, and it pained him deeply to think that the boy’s pain could have been at his fault had Timothée misread the look of repulsion in Armie’s face as being directed towards _him_. The disgust and distain he felt for the Master was immediately dissolved by the unbearable desire to protect and nurture this kind and beautiful soul that sat before him.

Timothée began to cry, with large tears rolling down his face, wetting his eyelashes and staining his nose and cheeks a deep crimson while causing him to resemble that of a fallen angel. Armie could no longer bear Timothée’s emotional suffering and could not know how to explain his compassion for him, and so despite his desire to comfort Timothée with kind words, he resolved to comfort him with the gentle and passionate physical affection that he so long deserved.

As Timothée tried to speak again, Armie suddenly pressed him lips to his with full force. In the next moment, Timothée was climbing up onto Armie’s lap, wrapping his lithe, long legs around his waist before pressing his tongue so curiously into Armie’s mouth. Armie returned the favor as Timothée opened his wet mouth invitingly so as to allow Armie to taste and explore him with his own tongue.

“Armie… Armie…” Timothée began to moan between kisses, feeling each other’s hot breathe mingling and mixing about. His nimble, delicate hands ran up and under Armie’s shirt, grabbing at his back so as to feel his firm muscles as they shifted with every moment that he pulled his body closer. Armie was fondling Timothée’s nipples with one hand while the other arm was wrapped around his thin while begging and begging for more skin. He needed to feel his own bare flesh against Timothée’s flawless body, and Armie was quick to remove his own shirt and pants before Timothée threw himself back onto him, nuzzling himself against Armie’s large and sweaty chest.

In a rush of unbearable passion, Armie found himself pinning Timothée back against the headboard of his bed before allowing his tongue to trace along the boy’s collarbone. He listened to the Timothée panting with absolute need and heard a slight catch in his breath when he smothered the boy in wet kisses down his chest and took his pink nipple into his mouth, fondling it and sucking on the sensitive tip with his tongue.

“Armie… Ah—” Timothée gasped softly as Armie, keeping his mouth among the boy’s sensitive nipple, reached down into Timothée’s trousers and began to stroke his hardened cock.

He swiveled his hips around, and with the help of Armie’s helping hands, Timothée wriggled out of his trousers and now sat naked before Armie. Timothée had never felt so vulnerable and yet so protected by someone that he was sharing his body with. He arched his back against the headboard and raised his hands over his head to grab the top of the headboard, stretching and showing off his exquisite body while feeling the warmth of precum leaking onto his own stomach that which Armie, overcome with arousal at the sight of it, greedily leaned down to lick.

“Please,” The boy whimpered, Timothée and Armie removed his mouth from the boy look at him for a moment. Armie admired his heaving chest, glistening with spit and sweat, as well as his beautifully erect cock between his milky thighs. His mouth was open and slack, his tongue poking out from between his pink lips as he so breathlessly panted for more. His green eyes were almost completely blackened with arousal as they penetrated into Armie’s. Armie could barely recognize the wildly exotic look in the boy’s face that resembled that of a feral little animal.

‘ _This is the boy that everyone had wanted tonight,_ ’ Armie thought as he thrust himself forward to kiss his open mouth again. When he pulled away, he’d left his fingers between Tim’s lips and admired the way he so pleasurably sucked on them. _‘That beautiful Omega that everyone gawked at with hungry, greedy eyes—that ever-so-graceful body everyone was begging to touch and rut and fuck—and I’ve him all to myself.”_

“My god, Timothée,” Armie sighed in pure ecstasy. “God, you’re stunning.”

“Armie,” The boy moaned though Armie’s fingers while beginning to rut his still-spread legs against Armie’s strong waist, making him feel like the luckiest man in the entire kingdom. “Armie please, you’re cock… I need…”

“What? What is it, Timothée?” Armie teased in a low voice, hiking one of Tim’s legs up so as to kiss along his thigh. The juxtaposition of Armie’s incredibly gentle caution and his powerful, ravenous lust for Timothée’s body overwhelmed him, and yet he desired nothing more than for Armie to demonstrate the potency of his strength and passion for him, even if he should wound him while doing so.

“Please fuck me,” Timothée gasped, his eyebrows furrowing up in clear desperation as he thrust himself upon him, climbing and fitting himself atop his lap. Armie nuzzled his lips against his neck and kissed passionately along his skin until he was caught off guard by the sudden shift in Timothée. The young Omega was digging his nails into Armie’s back as he clung to him before he began to kiss Armie as wildly as ever, shoving his tongue into the older man’s mouth and playfully biting his lower lip.

“I need you to fuck me,” He whined against Armie’s mouth. “Please fuck me, please fuck me…”

“Show me you deserve it,” Armie growled. Timothée could hear the coy little grin in the man’s voice, and he couldn’t keep a tiny giggle from bubbling up and escaping between his lips. Armie’s rough, demanding voice coinciding with his gentle touch was so incredibly endearing to Timothée.

So as to demonstrate his deservedness of Armie’s cock inside him, Tim licked and kissed his way down Armie’s muscular body until his mouth met the mountainous bulge, and like a savage, he gripped waistband of his underwear with his own teeth and tugged it down. Timothée’s eyes were blazing with an unbearable curiosity at the sheer size of Armie’s cock before his very own eyes, and he so fervently thrust his mouth down onto it in the very next moment, pushing the long length of it deeply into his own throat.

“Fuck, Timothée…” Armie moaned, running his hands through Timothée’s tussled curls and pushing the sweaty mats of them away from his forehead. The image of the young Omega fucking his own beautiful mouth against his cock drove Armie to near madness, and he could only allow it for so long before he’d forced him away so as to keep from climaxing.

“No, not yet,” Armie groaned, his voice breaking from pleasure as he grabbed at Timothée. “Not until I get my cock inside of you.”

With that, Armie promptly threw the boy down onto his back as if he would a rag doll, feeling guilty and powerful at the same time. Timothée felt so limp and weak from being so aroused and overstimulated, and he continued to moan Armie’s name through the traces of precum and saliva that dripped messily from his chin. Armie had never seen the boy look so repulsive and yet so impossibly beautiful as his lay sprawled out on the bed.

Armie hiked the Omega’s slender legs up and apart before leaning down to spit into Timothée’s enticing pucker so as to further lubricate him, and he teasingly poked the very tip of his cock against his hole.

“ _Please fuck me_ ,” Timothée gasped once more, beckoning with his whole being for Armie’s cock to penetrate him as he towered from above. “ _Please_!”

In the next moment, Armie thrust his cock halfway into the boy’s tight little hole, watching in delight as Timothée howled in absolute ecstasy as his body eventually swallowed the entire length of Armie’s cock.

“Good boy,” Armie sighed, impressed with how much his tiny, delicate body could manage. The young Omega was so small and so stuffed with Armie’s length that the barely perceptible bulge of it was detectable under his stomach, and when the two men reached a steady rhythm, Armie relished in watching the bulge shift about inside of Timothée while he fucked him. The both of them were lost in their own passions while thrusting and rutting against each other, Armie’s hands gripping along Timothée’s parted thighs and Timothée balling the bedsheets in his white-knuckled fists.

“Armie, Armie, Armie—” Timothée moaned, his eyes shut and mouth slack with bliss. Armie could only allow himself deep, guttural grunts, as he thrust himself into the sweet, young Omega before him. He’d never before been met with such a sense of ecstasy, and he shifted himself to be laying over him without ever straying from their rhythm. Wrapping his entire self around Timothée, he fucked him until his senses began to numb and all he could home in on was the sensation of his penetrating the beautiful young man that which he lusted after for so many weeks.

Armie’s pleasure grew with unbearable intensity at every deep thrust into Timothée sweet, little hole until he was at the absolute edge of madness, panting and groaning like a savage, and he promptly pulled his cock from his ass so as to spew his pleasure all over the smooth, white skin of Timothée’s stomach.

Timothée looked admiringly at Armie’s spilled seed all over him, and Armie leaned down over the boy’s pink cock and placed his own mouth over him. The young Omega moaned and whined, grabbing violently at Armie’s blonde hair until his own body shuddered all at once, now spilling _his_ seed all over himself.

Timothée sighed, looking at Armie with a gaze of pure bliss and infatuation as his panting slowed and breaths deepened.

“Armie…” He whined with a soft smile on his lips, pulling Armie up by his hair to lay with him. “Armieee…”

“Ouch, ouch,” Armie winced at Timothée’s playful viciousness. This wild and mischievous side of the sweet, sensitive, and thoughtful boy he had only ever known absolutely thrilled him to no end. Yet when he met Timothée at his side, he found the him nestling into him in a kittenish way as he giggled softly and apologized for his impulse.

“Don’t give it another thought,” Armie reassured him, wrapping an arm around the tiny boy and holding him tenderly to his own chest. The two rested, panting and recovering from their shared experience, engrossed in the long-awaited satisfaction that only left them begging for more, before Timothée shifted and sat up to stretch. He then looked lovingly at Armie and caressed his cheek while speaking in a soft, tired voice.

“I’m going to draw a bath, will you come?”

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who was patient enough to wait for these 2 to finally get their boners on!  
> (BTW having to figure out a way to depict this smut scene somewhere between the formal language I've been for most of this fic and using plain ol' obscene and vulgar language to dirty it up proved to be an interesting challenge hahahaha)
> 
> There is still much more to come story-wise and smut-wise, so thanks for sticking around for the wild ride! <333


	8. Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothée and Armie are overcome with the desire to meet again, and Timothée utilizes an unfavorable coping method to deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do we want?!
> 
> FLUFF & SMUT!!
> 
> When do we want it?!
> 
> NOW!!
> 
> FLUFF & SMUT!   
> FLUFF & SMUT!   
> FLUFF & SMUT!

### Chapter 8

Armie sat at the piano in the music room, twirling a tiny piece of black cloth between his fingers and gazing at it longingly. It was around 30 minutes after dinner had ended, and despite his intentions to continue working on his composition for the Mid-Summer Festival, he was helplessly consumed by events of the night before and indulging in the memory of Timothée’s coy little smile, his curious eyes, his sweet-sounding moans, and the smell of his skin.

At the end of the night, the two men had developed a scheme to meet once again that should be only implemented after the Mid-Summer Festival in order to allow Armie enough time to focus solely on his composition. Consequently, this meant that they would have to keep their hands off each other for at least another six days before Armie would once again be allowed to sneak up and see his beloved.

This plot did not however, keep Timothée from sneaking into the music room before dinner ended and leaving a naughty little token for Armie.

Recalling the events of the night before with longing nostalgia, Armie laid the tiny, black piece of lacey underwear on a side table adjacent to the piano and succumbed to the velvety cushions of the loveseat.

_“It should be adjacent to the sink, hanging on the wooden rack!”_ Armie recalled hearing Timothée’s voice call from the bathroom. He had decided against joining Timothée in the bath, as the claw-foot tub was seemingly made for only someone as small as Timothée. Returning from the powder room, Armie handed Timothée a small towel for the back of his neck to act as a sort of pillow as he sunk a little deeper into the warm, sudsy water.

“Thank you,” Timothée smiled, hiking his legs up so that his knees poked out from under the bubbles. “Sit?”

Armie failed to find a stool of any sort and resorted to sitting on the tiled step that led up to the bath, situating his elbow atop the rim of the tub and leaning his head against his hand.

“Look at you,” Armie smiled, admiring the happy, blissful little glow in the boy’s rosy face. “Soaking in this grandiose tub of yours, you’ve the likeness of a queen.”

“How I’d wish it so,” Timothée giggled, cupping a small mound of bubbles in his hand and letting it plop back into the water.

“Hmm,” Armie mused. “Are you feeling any better about tonight’s performance?”

“Oh, don’t speak of it.”

“I’ve only concern for you.”

Timothée sunk down into the tub and emerged within seconds, pushing his now-soaked curls away from his forehead. He sputtered a bit of soap from his mouth and smiled sheepishly at Armie.

“I’m well, I promise,” He said softy after a moment. “The lingering embarrassment, I’m sure, will subside in another day or so.”

“I’m glad. As I said earlier, your performance startled and stunned me—your confidence on stage was unmatched.”

“Truly?” Timothée beamed, while swirling a pool of bubbles into a little mountain. In the meanwhile, Armie caught a glimpse of a naughty little conversation piece hanging on the metal hook behind the door.

“And what’s that?” Armie chuckled mischievously, referring to what looked like a black, lacey little pair of panties hanging on the wall.

“Oh _that_?” Timothée raised his eyebrows. “It was a gift from the Master— a welcoming gift. Although I’m certain he’s since forgotten about it.”

The Omega tilted his head as he gazed at the sad little pair of panties hanging on the door. “Even I’d forgotten it. After washing it once in the sink myself after I’d tried them out for a day, I haven’t touched them since.”

“How interesting…” Armie said with a conniving smile.

“What are you thinking?”

Armie remained silent, maintaining the same smirk on his face until he was splashed with a bout of warm, sudsy water.

“—The _matter_ with you?” Armie sputtered, eyes widening at the child-like playfulness that had come over the boy before he, too, was laughing alongside Timothée.

“I know what you’d thought,” Timothée finally said, handing the towel behind his head to Armie to dry himself. “I will _not_ be wearing those for you. Not anytime soon.”

“Why is that?”

Armie slung the towel over his shoulders as Timothée shifted around in the tub, now placing his folded arms over the rim and resting his chin upon them. As he looked up at Armie through his dark, wet eyelashes in a demure sort of way, Armie sat wonderstruck by the variable nature of Timothée’s character that which allowed him to shift from looking playful and innocent one second, and so sensual and coy the next.

“When I wear them, it’ll be of my _own_ accord and not on _your_ behalf.”

For someone who’s vocation was entirely based around sexual submission and the likes, Timothée both amused and surprised Armie with his constant tongue-in-cheek oppositions. He held out his wrist as a way of asking for his towel back, to which Armie had surprised _him_ by instead taking his dainty little hand in his and kissing the back of it, and to which Timothée could not had helped but blush at.

Nestled on the loveseat in the music room, Armie thought of how amusing it was that, despite his tongue-in-cheek statement of defiance, Timothée had ended up slipping the small pair of now-worn panties into his desk the day after they’d spoken of it.

It had been barely a day since the two men were tucked so secretively away together within Timothée’s private chambers, and Armie was already distraught with a longing to be near him again (they had not met since as it was Saturday, and their music lessons would not resume until Monday). Armie sat and imagined Timothée in his room, primping and preparing himself to be met with the Master for their nightly meeting, and clenched his jaw in jealousy. There was nothing that he selfishly desired more than to sweep Timothée up and take him far away from this estate so as to keep him all to himself, but that sort of impulse was nothing short of a daydream while they would otherwise devise a plan that could allow them to realistically meet without the detection of the Master.

Armie’s unrelenting desire to be with Timothée griped him, and he had to force the daydream away before returning to the piano to work on his piece for the Mid-summer Festival.

~~~

Timothée stared out the window of his bedroom and out onto the East Garden in the same position he had situated himself the night before his first meeting with Armie. The weather was not dissimilar to as it had been that night what with the same sort of breeze wafting up the scent of the flowers up to his window, but now his situation with the man he’d been looking forward to meet on that night, which now seemed so long ago, was drastically unlike anything he could’ve imagined.

The Omega sat similarly with his music portfolio on his lap, except instead of studying his sheet music for his upcoming meeting with his professor-to-be, he was drafting poetry on the back of his score for his _Chanson Folklorique Française._ As Timothée eventually came to realize that he may never again remember the actual words that aligned with this old folk melody, he took it upon himself to rewrite his own lyrics to it after having been inspired by Armie’s own creative abilities.

“No, no, no, that’s senseless,” Timothée muttered under his breathe, sipping from his teacup of lavender and ambrosia.

_‘How could I ever write anything of any value to show to him?’_

Like Armie, Timothée couldn’t remove himself from the memories that were made in that very same bedroom the previous evening. He found himself unmistakably infatuated with this man that had so persistently chased him into the east gardens solely to soothe him after a most traumatizing event, and the utmost gentle affection that Armie used with Timothée was unlike any way that he had ever been treated. As a result, Timothée spent that following day yearning to return to Armie’s side and dreading his upcoming session with the Master that night.

Master Luca was not the most terrible bed-fellow—Timothée was actually indifferent towards the Master’s rough-rousing as he’d endured much worse by former clients and because his body was rather focused on pleasure over pain as an effect of the ambrosia, although there _did_ exist a corner of Timothée’s mind that remained wary of the Master’s occasional hostility, as had been demonstrated the night that he smashed a wine glass against the wall of the dining hall in some sort of outburst of impatience. However, nothing of the sort had ever occurred since seeing as though Timothée had developed quite a tolerance for ambrosia and could now sip a glass throughout dinner with ease.

And so as Timothée indulged in the memory of his beloved so as to distract him from the impending arrival of the Master, he began to sip his ambrosia even more frequently between his poetry-drafting and allowed his daydreams to further consume him.

Before he knew it, his teacup was empty, as was the small teapot that he requested to be brewed. He made a mental note to request a stronger brew the next time and leaned his forehead against the bay window, trying to spot the exact place in the east gardens below that they’d shared their first kiss and allowing the thought of Armie’s lips and mouth, his strong hands and warm, musky embrace to swarm his now foggy mind. As if in some sort of possessed state, Timothée found himself leaving the cushion at the bay window to go to his knapsack where he knew he’d stashed a small flask of ambrosia.

_‘For emergencies,’_ Timothée had justified to himself while secretly filling it up in the bar room earlier that day.

He sat on the floor in front of the vanity, and having fetched his flask and wafted in the distinct smell of the aphrodisiac, he could feel his trousers growing tighter as he brought the flask to his lips.

_‘Only a sip,’_ Timothée thought upon tipping the flask into his mouth. _‘A single sip to push me over the edge, so to allow me to fantasize about him once more before the Master arrives. I have the time, don’t I?’_

The bittersweet liquid slipped down this throat with ease although at a slightly faster rate than Timothée had expected, and he ended up coughing and sputtering as he capped the flask and returned it to his knapsack.

The effects were almost immediate, and after having already finished a small teapot of ambrosia-laced tea, they accumulated into a sense of sexual yearning unlike anything Timothée had experienced at the hands of the substance. A sort of chill ran through the Omega’s body that was soon followed by a deep, blossoming warmth. Timothée felt as though his every inhibition was peeled away, every inch of his skin now electrified with an acute sensitivity.

The Omega looked into the full-body mirror adjacent to him from his spot on the floor. His vision did not seem spin or warp or lurch as it would had he drunken the equivalent of hard liquor instead of ambrosia—his mind was sound while his body was reeling, begging with need, desiring to be filled, and before he could even stop to think, he was pulling his clothes from his body if only to feel the bare chill of the air against his flesh and further entice him.

Timothée examined his now nude body in the mirror and couldn’t recognize the image as his self’s. His eyes were fully dilated, blackened and blown out like those of a hungry animal, his pink nipples and cock erect with arousal, his narrow chest heaving in desperation. He visualized Armie’s tongue flicking and twisting about the tip of his leaking cock and ran his hands over his slender body so as it to imagine Armie’s own touch.

_‘I could have him now if I’d desired.’_

His mind wove madly from one filthy thought to the next.

_‘I could race downstairs and let him fill me and fuck me, and how I’d want it so!’_

At this notion, Timothée decided so suddenly that he _needed_ to be filled right then and at any cost. He pulled open the vanity drawers to find nothing of a phallic sort that he could use on himself and instead consulted the mess of makeup and beauty tools that lined the vanity mirror. The sight of a large, fluffy face makeup brush with a thick, tapered handle caught the Omega’s eye, and he hastily began to lubricate it with his own mess of saliva as well as some of a few drops of a rose-scented face oil from atop the counter.

_‘I need you to fuck me, Armie…’_

_‘Please, please, please, fuck me…’_

Timothée hiked his thighs wide and situated before his wet hole, letting the fluffy bristles rest on the rug below him and preparing to pump himself full. The irony of using such a dainty, vain little object in such an obscene way amused him, and he imagined Armie’s playfully scolding voice persecuting him for acting like such a desperate little slut before plunging the handle into his own body.

“—Fuck!” Tim yelped, his breath catching as he felt the tapered tip slip deeper and deeper into himself. His eyes returned to himself in the mirror, imagining the make-shift fuck toy that his body was so easily swallowing up as Armie’s cock until only the fluffy tip stuck almost comically out of his needy hole.

_‘More, more!’_

The Omega was quick to find a rhythm that satisfied him, lifting and dropping his narrow hips atop his fuck toy and penetrating himself over and over and over again. His foggy mind was flooding with mounds of filth— Armie ramming into his tight little ass, holding his wrists above his head, wrapping his hands around his slender neck until the world went black and blue with pleasure.

_‘Armie, Armie, Armie, Armie, Armie—!’_

Timothée panted loud, moaning and mewling while allowing his mind to roam wild. Hot, salty tears flooded his eyes from overstimulation, spilling down over his cheeks and mixing with his own sweat.

‘ _I need you to fuck me like a whore_ ,’ His mind confessed, reeling back to the degrading statements that he so long despised—the ones that advocated the male Omega stereotype of being nothing more than begging, starving, horny fuck dolls.

_‘Fuck me like the slut I am.’_

_‘Fuck my like I’m made for it.’_

However, when redirected towards the man that so desired him—the man that treated Timothée like treasure— these demeaning statements seemed to lose all sense of validity. He imagined that regardless of how he could twist himself, whether he made himself out as a whoring courtesan or otherwise, there had seemed no possible way that Armie could have the malice in him to see Timothée as so many other people saw male Omegas. Armie was too perfect a man to him.

Timothée continued to pump himself senseless, drooling and gasping over himself while he chased his own climax. Tossing his morals aside, he succumbed to his own dark desires and tapped into his own humiliation and degradation in order to goad himself along.

 _‘You’re a fucking slut, Timothée,’_ Armie’s voice rattled on.

_‘You’re the fucking whore of the house.’_

_‘You’re deserve everything you’re getting.’_

Timothée felt his own cock bursting with desire, his moans and whines stretching and reaching for sweet release, and his own thick, creamy pleasure spurted from his cock and onto his own chest and chin while his entire body shook in an orgasm of astounding magnitude.

Following this, the young boy leaned back against the wood of the vanity, panting and heaving in an absolute daze. He looked down at himself and at the mess he’d created, the effects of the ambrosia dissolving as his body and mind recovered.

Timothée was so ridiculously exhausted, feeling as though his body could not allow for anything beyond a deep, much-needed rest, and this exhaustion was quickly replaced by utter dread and regret. The Master was to arrive any minute now.

_‘Why, why, why…’_

_‘What have I done?’_

The Omega tossed the filthy makeup brush under the vanity drawers, and as fast as he’d tried to run to the powder room for a robe and a towelette, his legs could not keep up at the rate he’d intended. His entire body felt like gelatin, and his own limbs seemed close to collapsing under his own weight. Overwhelmed and anxious, Timothée succumbed to his own emotions and began to weep at his own reflection in the mirror as he wiped the sweat and cum from himself.

_‘Why, why, why…?’_

The dissolution of the ambrosia within his system brought clarity and reason back to his mind, although he could not bring himself to understand why he had done what he did. If not for his inability to restrain himself from consuming the amount of ambrosia that he had, there was little chance that he would have done something so impulsive and desperate only minutes before the Master was to use him. Timothée was flooded with shame, imagining that his own failing was a result of his nature as a male Omega. Perhaps the stereotypes regarding male Omegas as sexual degenerates held as much truth within him, and perhaps this suffering of his was very much well-deserved.

Timothée heard a knock on his bedroom door from across his quarters.

“Timothée?” A young woman’s voice called. “Are you ready for the Master shortly?”

The boy inhaled sharply and returned to sit in the middle of his bed, feeling numb and stone-cold.

“Yes. Whenever he is ready, as am I,” Timothée called, clutching the sleeves of his robe so as to stop his voice from shaking.


	9. The Mid-Summer Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of the long-awaited, 3-day-long Mid-Summer Festival commences after much anticipation.

### Chapter 9

Timothée snaked around the corner of the brightly-colored welcoming tent, between a row of food stalls that smelled of marzipan pastries and meat pies, and through a crowded audience of festival-goers until he once again found himself amongst the audience of aristocratic spectators where Master Luca was seated under the shade of a clothed canopy. The huge wooden stage, that which the crowd of festival-goers were angled around while either standing or sitting beneath shaded canopies, was painted in a white and gold design and dressed in flower garlands of sunflowers and daisies. In the midst of the audience, Timothée could sense the excited spirit of the soon-to-be-commencing Mid-Summer Festival swelling throughout the crowd of peasants, commoners, and aristocrats alike, all of whom were chattering away in anticipation for the musical performances of the aristocratic court musicians.

Upon seating himself adjacent to the Master, Timothée gathered up the sleeves of his linen shirt and smoothed a hand over his forehead, now damp with sweat from the summer heat.

“’Twas not in the carriage,” Timothée said to Master Luca in reference to the paper fan he had gone off in search for. “Perhaps I’d forgotten to pack it.”

“A shame,” The Master said coolly, observing the other aristocrats under their own canopies as well as the peasants that were gathered about beneath the blaze of the mid-morning sun, sweating and fanning themselves with their flimsy handkerchiefs. He beckoned an attendant over and promptly ordered that they go off in search of a shopfront that sold fans.

“The heat will not be subsiding anytime soon,” Master Luca stated after his Omega courtesan, who had actually only crept away to sip discreetly from a miniature flask of ambrosia if only to quell his craving for the bittersweet taste of it, had nodded at him with polite gratitude.

“My sincerest thanks, Luca,” Timothée answered. The Master was doing himself a great favor in looking out for his Omega’s well-being and outward appearance during this tumultuous 3-day-long festival, even going so far as to have an elegant, summery ensemble of blue and while tailored specially for Timothée’s public appearance at the opening ceremony. Timothée, being the status symbol that high society Omega courtesans were, was to be on display at the Master’s side so as to demonstrate his excessive wealth and his fine taste in Omegas.

Another way that the Masters and Mistresses of high society flaunted their status and excessive wealth during the Mid-Summer Festival was by appealing to have their court musicians perform in the opening ceremony of the festival. Professor Armand Hammer’s ensemble was only one of many ensembles to perform that morning, all of which were composed of other court musicians for various members of high society.

These fellow musicians were unlike competitors to Armie—many were actually close acquaintances of his since professional court musicians often ran in similar circles—but Master Luca viewed each separate ensemble as an opposing force to his own. Although the Master frequented social events with fellow aristocrats in the kingdom and maintained outwardly courteous relations with those alike, there was an odd competitiveness that lurked beneath the glossy exterior of his relations as a well as an odd sense of distrust amongst many of the aristocrats towards the Master. Timothée had seen hints of this as demonstrated in the way that Master Luca held himself when approached by other aristocrats in public— with mechanical-like civility and a peculiar suppression of sternness.

Nevertheless, Timothée’s position towards the Master stood on neutrality and obligated respect, and while the Omega courtesan occasionally capitalized on the Master’s ego and sexual desires by flirting and fawning over him in private, their relations were strictly of a business sort.

“It’s just as anyone might imagine that Professor Hammer’s ensemble would prevail as the opening act,” The Omega forced himself to whisper to his Master in a soft and sultry way, seeing that he hadn’t sipped enough of his ambrosia to elicit any sort of lust within himself. “As if the court musicians of any other could ever compare with the talents of yours.”

Master Luca allowed an approving smirk to cross his lips while retaining his forward gaze, obviously flattered and satisfied by his praise.

“It _must_ be known that the House of Guadagnino prizes nothing else above talent, merit, and beauty,” The Master stated while scanning the faces of the surrounding audience and nodding towards his Omega courtesan at the last word.

Then, the sound of tuning string instruments swelled from behind the huge, paper screen that stood at the front of the wooden stage, and an excited hush fell over the audience. Timothée clutched the seat of his chair, his eyes widening and heart skipping with every passing moment after having been daydreaming of Armie’s on-stage presence since he’d woken up that morning. As he had insisted on cancelling their last four piano lessons so as to allow his professor to focus solely on his composition, Timothée had found himself missing his professor so terribly in the days leading up to the opening ceremony.

At once, a mechanical contraption pulled back the paper screen at the stage and revealed a modestly-sized ensemble of violins, cellos, lutes, and wind instruments—Armie standing before them with a conductor’s baton in his hand.

Timothée suppressed his proud admiration in the Master’s presence at the sight of his beloved as he bowed before all in a grandiose yet collected manner. With the audience and musicians seemingly at his command, Armie turned back towards his musicians before waiting for the applause to diminish, lifting his baton, and cuing the first notes of his piece.

Timothée, enraptured by the baton at his beloved’s fingertips as it danced and whipped in the wind at a lighting pace, immediately felt himself sweeping out of his own body at the very pace that the stringed instruments weaved their way through the jovial, light-hearted melody. The fibers of his own soul seemed to lilt along to the rhythm that which the townsfolk joyfully tapped their feet and to which the young children in the open square beside the stage danced in circles, twisting and spinning about like a feather in the breeze. Even Master Luca, who was normally so composed in every manner, nodded his head and tapped his foot to the driving rhythm of the tune.

Armie’s song sounded of the seasons—it was just as bright and youthful as a springtime’s blossom as it was as blazing and fiery of a mid-summer’s solar flares—and Timothée listened endearingly to the workings of Armie’s heart and mind as the piece unfolded before him. He imagined his clever, playful banter as the fluttering of a flute floated over the crowd. He imagined his confident and composed demeanor as the cellos plucked a sturdy bassline as the foundation of the ensemble. He imagined the striking, fierce determination in his sterling blue eyes as the violins twisted around a daunting, difficult passage without missing a single note. And although Armie’s back faced the crowd, Timothée imagined the look of sheer passion and excitement that could only now exist on the face of the man he admired as his composition danced and catapulted forward. His musicians plucked and bowed and sounded with all the same vigor as the tip of Armie’s baton, and the joyful, celebratory nature of his song seemed to blanket the entire audience in the spirit of the summertime.

The piece never let up its rigor and concluded with the same jovial energy that with which it began as Armie carved his baton up into the air in a sharp, crisp gesture as the ensemble tied up its final melody.

With that, a wall of excited and cheerful applause erupted from the crowd as a group of festival attendants leapt upon the stage with a banner reading, “ _Thus commences the Annual Mid-Summer Festival_ ”, and Armie turned with his ensemble to bow before the crowd with a happy and humble smile across his lips. While surveying the sprawling audience and accepting their praise, Timothée couldn’t help but imagine that, when he paused for the briefest moment towards the rows of canopied seats, Armie was searching for him in the crowd.

Overcome with a great sense of pride and admiration, Timothée couldn’t refrain from laughing aloud while he clapped for the performers, and he had been gazing around to see the reactions of the other festival-goers when he finally noticed the odd expression that had replaced the once entertained and amused look upon Master Luca’s face. The Master looked over his shoulder and then over the other while donning a sort of half-scowl. His expression didn’t resemble any sort of anger or impatience, as Timothée would have otherwise recognized, and was rather so uncharacteristic of any of the Master’s usual countenances that he looked unlike himself altogether.

“Master Luca?” Timothée said cautiously over the excited chatter of the crowd while Armie exited the stage with his musicians, a hop and skip in his confident stride. “What did you think? Wasn’t that lovely?”

The Master shifted awkwardly in his seat and glanced behind himself once more. If Timothée hadn’t known any better, he could’ve mistaken the Master’s countenance as one of a fearful sort.

“Indeed,” Master Luca said suddenly, his tone as strict as usual. He stood from his seat as the festival attendants began to rearrange the stage for the next group of musicians. “Come. Shall we go congratulate the ensemble?”

Timothée didn’t stir at first, confused as to why Master Luca desired to make such haste when their original intentions were to stay and watch the remainder of the opening performances, but upon watching the Master begin to snake through the crowd without turning to see whether Timothée followed, he stood just as hastily and trailed close behind the Master as the next ensemble filed onstage to the sound of a cheering audience.

Professor Armand Hammer leaned back against a tent pole in a small circle of his musicians, listening to praiseful discussion amongst the ensemble as they tidied themselves within the musician’s tent and set aside their instruments. Armie was beaming with joy and reeling from the rush of adrenaline that had possessed him onstage, and while his voice was speaking aloud of praise and gratitude for such a passionate performance from the court musicians, his mind yielded once again to thoughts of his Timothée. The excitement of the commencing festival, the pride for his ensemble and their performance, and the feeling of the accumulating heat in the crowded tent swirled around the image of his beloved’s kind and adoring face in Armie’s mind in such a rapid way that Armie felt as though he could faint from overstimulation— and like a mirage in a vast desert, the kind and adoring face of his beloved seemed to materialize immediately before him!

Alas, the image of his beloved’s face was nothing further from a mirage, but Armie’s joy at Timothée’s sudden presence in the entryway of the tent was stalled at the moment he realized that Master Luca was also before him.

“Professor!” Master Luca announced in a tone of pride and approval. The musicians politely yielded their conversation at the recognition of their Master’s voice and turned towards him, slightly bowing their heads as a sign of respect. “Professor, ensemble— all of you.”

Armie glanced at Timothée’s face, which peered over at him from behind the Master’s shoulder with a look of wonder and admiration, before forcing his focus toward the Master.

“Excellent performance from all of you,” Master Luca pronounced while offering a swift handshake of approval to the professor. “And what a marvelous composition to have represented the musicians at the House of Guadagnino. How joyous!”

“I’m honored by your approval,” Armie said with a prideful grin, taking note of Timothée’s quiet, mousy presence in the shadow of the Master—and how Armie would’ve loved to ask Timothée of his opinion on the performance.

“So, will you be enjoying the festival for the remainder of the day?” Armie questioned in hopes of meeting with Timothée on the festival grounds or, if they could manage, sneaking away with Timothée from the festival grounds.

“I would, but— I’m afraid I’ve other affairs to attend to.”

Master Luca was already beginning to walk backwards towards the entryway of the tent in an almost hurried sort of manner, one hand now hooked around the crook of Timothée’s elbow to tug him along. This gesture, as benign as it might have been, sent a sense of envy and repulsion down Armie’s spine.

“Is that so?”

“Yes— We’ve not even time to spare any longer for the remainder of the opening ceremony, as it seems.” The Master’s tone seemed strict and stern.

Armie glanced at Timothée long enough to detect his disappoint in the form of a subtle crinkle of his nose, as if Timothée had otherwise expected that the Master would allow him to remain at the festival for longer. Seeing as though the festival at only just begun, Armie felt a deep resentment toward the Master’s hasty and seemingly unreasonable departure as well as a deep sadness for Timothée’s inability to suggest otherwise.

“Ah, I see,” Armie said casually, forcing his jaw to relax in order to avoid sounding as though he’d spoken through gritting teeth.

“Once again, marvelous performance,” The Master repeated once more before Armie could respond, leading Timothée away and out towards where their carriage was. “Quite marvelous, as it was!”

“You’ve other affairs?” Timothée said, still hooked around the Master’s arm as he weaved through the crowd. The music of another ensemble sounded in the distance, and the smell of the food stalls seemed to fade with every hasty step.

“Unfortunately.”

“Am I to come with? I had thought we would remain at least until—”

“Omega,” The Master said strictly, cutting his words off.

His addressing of Timothée made his cheeks redden with shame and embarrassment, although he couldn’t allow himself to feel guilty for his mere desire to remain at the festival for longer than their brief attendance at the opening ceremony. The Master’s erratic behavior and his decision to so hastily depart was as unreasonable as it was uncharacteristic of himself, seeing as though Master Luca would not have usually minded the publicity brought upon by flaunting his beautiful Omega out in public.

The Master had to have detected this sense of shame, embarrassment, and disappointment within the cracks of Timothée’s face, and in another uncharacteristic gesture of what seemed to be sympathy, he stalled suddenly and turned towards his Omega courtesan.

“Fine,” The Master said in his usual strict tone. “You may remain.”

“Master, I—”

“I shall send a servant to the welcoming tent at noontime. Should you decide to remain for longer, then you may arrange a carriage for a later time with whomever I send.”

Timothée froze at the Master’s statement as his offering was as generous as it was as shockingly out of character. The fact that the Master would go out of his way so as to send a separate carriage for Timothée both delighted and confused him. Although his compromise proved to be in Timothée’s favor, he was more so concerned with Master Luca’s sudden shift in mood during the performance of Armie’s ensemble.

Timothée stammered for a sheepish apology, feeling as though he’d done or said something that caused for Master Luca’s desire to leave him, and he could not conclude whether the Master’s decision was based upon sympathy, resentment, or haste. The Master ducked under a passing banner that then separated himself from Timothée and turned once more to his Omega.

“The servant will arrive at the West end of the welcoming tent,” He called, and without bidding a formal goodbye, Master Luca nodded and turned away from the boy, who just as swiftly pivoted and wove back into the crowd towards the musician’s tent with confusion spinning about his mind.

~~~

By mid-afternoon, Timothée and Armie had been too busy indulging in their quality time together to think twice about Master Luca’s abnormal behavior that morning. Timothée, having decided to refrain from speaking in depth of it to Armie at the chance that the conversational topic of the Master would incite jealousy in Armie, had raced to his side following the Master’s decision to allow him to remain at the festival. They had ultimately arranged for a carriage to bring them both back to the estate at 4pm, and nearing this departure time, Timothée found himself nestled next to Armie on a hilltop bench at the perimeter of the festival ground, picking pecans from Armie’s second cup of roasted nuts and observing an entertainer juggling colored balls for a group of giggling children nearby.

The pair were as exhausted as they were delighted by the array of activities that lined the fairgrounds, and by the nearing-end of the opening day of the festival, they’d enjoyed dancing in the town square to folk bands, laughing at the day-drunks singing along with the street musicians, watching mystery plays under tented stages, browsing the stalls for hand-crafted wares and imports from all over the continent, and drinking elderberry ale. After the stress of both Timothée’s solo performance and Armie’s compositional premiere in the recent weeks, they’d both believed that an outing such as this was much-needed and much-deserved, and they took pleasure in enjoying each other’s company after having been apart in the recent days. Moreover, the distractions of the day provided Timothée with a much-needed excuse to keep from dawdling upon the Master’s erratic behavior that morning. He had promptly decided that, despite the volatile nature of his odd behavior, Master Luca didn’t seem to have any malicious intent in hastily departing from the festival or allowing Timothée to remain— perhaps it was so that he truly _did_ have some forgotten affair to attend to.

“How much time have we left?” Armie asked, yawning and stretching his arms above his head in a dramatic way.

“Hmm, twenty minutes maybe?”

Timothée was much too entranced by the juggler’s effortless talent as he tossed the colored balls about to check his watch for an accurate reading of the time. Beside that fact, he was much too delighted in being in Armie’s company to think of how many minutes remained of their day together, despite how his bones ached from dancing and how his curls clung to the edges of his forehead with sweat. As hot and sweltering and dirty and loud as it’d been in some corners of the fairgrounds, the Mid-Summer Festival proved to be the precise place that the pair needed be so as to release some pent-up steam and have a little carefree fun. Likewise, the juxtaposition between the chaotic festival and the stale, pristine halls of the estate proved to be an interesting change of scenery for Timothée and Armie, who’d never been outside of the estate together.

“Twenty minutes? How had you come to that conclusion? I didn’t know you’ve the ability to know the time just by observing how long the shadows have grown,” Armie teased, playfully knocking his knee against the Omega’s.

“I don’t wish to know the time,” Timothée said plainly under his gentle smile. “Just as I don’t wish this day to end.”

“Have you still got energy after all this? That dance routine of yours earlier in the square—I was exhausted only _watching_ you.”

The young man failed to suppress a chuckle at this comment and stole another of Armie’s roasted pecans. Due to the carefree and playful nature of their bantering and their surrounding environment, Timothée imagined himself as though he were involved in some sort of courtly affair—one of which where a young man courts a young girl by inviting her to a dinner or a brunch or a picnic rendezvous. These daydreams of casual courting and flirty affairs outside of his sex work as a courtesan had always lingered in his mind, although he had never imagined that he would ever come close to fulfilling them.

“Once this festival is finished, I suppose I’ve really no other reason to come into town,” Timothée said finally. His lurking sense of pessimism began to resurface, and he suddenly felt as though his miniature flask of ambrosia was growing heavier from within the hidden pocket he’d sewn into his pants. “And then I’ll return to lounging on loveseats and waiting for the Master to come pet me, avoiding contemptable looks from the house staff.”

“I’m sure that the house staff only detest their work, not you.”

“As if you’ve any idea.”

Armie winced and waited for Timothée to speak again, watching a dreamy and somewhat sad look glaze over his green eyes, although he was not offended in the slightest. It was true that Armie knew nothing of what Timothée experienced as the Omega courtesan of the house, and he could only imagine that the disdain of the house staff towards the boy could not be dissimilar to how Armie had long-judged male Omegas that he had come across in the past.

The surrounding crowd of festival-goers seemed to thin a little, and the young lovers were allowed a small window of peace in the middle of what was a whirlwind of a festival.

“Today—” Timothée started, now feeling slightly apologetic for his dismissiveness only moments before and attempting a gracious smile. “ _This_ has been the best day that I have had in a long while, and I owe much of my delight to you and your company.”

Armie, after surveying their surroundings for any spectators, smiled appreciatively at his beloved and squeezed his small hand in his own. So as to suppress his desire to lean over and kiss him at that very moment, he released his hand and looked off toward other festival-goers. An elder woman standing at a hat stall, two men playing lutes upon a wooden stage, a teenaged couple holding hands amongst a circle of their peers.

“What’s happening over there?” Timothée then asked, drawing Armie’s attention. “There, in the center plaza.”

The boy had his eyes focused on a growing gathering of people within the main plaza in the distance that which the two could clearly view from atop the hill that their bench was situated. Both men squinted under the blaze of the mid-afternoon sun in an attempt to read the bright banner that flew over the crowd to no avail. Likewise, the faces of the gatherers were indiscernible from their distance, but they could hear the distinct, rhythmic chanting of demanding voices arising from the plaza below.

“What is it? Some sort of disturbance… Do you suppose?” Armie mused nonchalantly, although his casualness toward the happening was slowly beginning to shift into dread with every minute that his eyes remained on the crowd in the distance. He reminisced of the rumor of a potential demonstration to take place at the festival, that which Armie had heard of by word of his fellow court musicians in the days leading up to their performance, and a pit began to form in his stomach. Had Timothée known of anything of the sort?

“A disturbance, perhaps,” Timothée guessed. “Or a demonstration…?”

“Of what sort?”

“Shall we go see?”

Timothée eagerly stood from their bench with a jolt of curiosity and concern while ceasing to take his eyes off the gathering in the center plaza, listening with keen ears to the hostility that began to ensue below as the rhythmic chanting was countered by other angry shouts. Should something significant be occurring in the near distance, he was sure not to miss it.

“Timothée— Should not the carriage be arriving soon?” Armie said, cautiously placing his palm on the small of Timothée’s back so as to gently guide him toward the direction of the welcoming tent, but the boy merely shifted onto the balls of his feet as if he were to catapult down the hill any minute.

“Should not we attend to whatever commotion seems to be building?”

The chanting of the gatherers rattled on with further resilience and volume. Armie fought his urge to curl the length of his arm around Timothée’s waist and anchor him to the ground at their safe distance from the crowd, and he asked the boy once again for the time.

Timothée hesitantly reached into his pant pocket and exclaimed in surprise at the moment his eyes met the face of his bronze watch.

“Oh! We have three minutes—!” Timothée chirped before taking off in the direction of the welcoming tent, Armie following close behind with a slight sense of relief. As Timothée twisted between the townsfolk with hasty and graceful ease, he peered over his shoulder only twice—once to be sure that Armie hadn’t fallen after having knocked his shoe against a slight dip in the cobblestone street, and another time to glance back at the gatherers of the speculated demonstration, whose clamorous shouts resounded in Timothée’s mind for the remainder of the carriage ride back to the estate.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS!
> 
> Sorry I'd been behind on writing-- I was finishing up some online summer classes but I'm FREE!
> 
> Here's some fun, fluff, and drama.
> 
> Sexytimes coming in the near future.


	10. Mid-Summer Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Master Luca runs an urgent errand while Timothée and Armie spend some alone time together before the Mid-Summer Ball.

### Chapter 10 

The writing room was often considered as peaceful as ever at any given time of any given day, but on this particular morning, the morning of the second day of the annual Mid-Summer Festival, Master Luca found himself unable to sit at his usual desk chair with the same ease that which he usually did. Having been pacing the length of the room with a freshly handwritten letter in hand, Luca then stopped in front the bay window and watched with furrowed brows as every ribbon of ink dried in the soft light of the morning sun.

He returned to his writing desk and, upon much deliberation, began to pen two more letters. One letter was addressed to his mother, to whom he’d consistently written one letter a week for longer than he can recall. Seeing as though she lived in a small home on the opposite end of the kingdom from where her son resided, they could rarely afford to meet in person besides whenever extenuating circumstances forced Luca to be at her side, such as in the time when his mother had reacted poorly to a new medicine and fell dangerously ill as a result of its toxicity, and Luca had leapt upon his carriage to go to her within twenty minutes of receiving her message.

This letter, however, in addition to asking of her health, finances, and other matters as his letters always inquired, noted to her that the money he was to send her would be of late arrival due to issues within the production sector of his business. With the flick of his pen, he signed the letter with his Italian nickname as prescribed to him so endearingly by his mother.

His final letter was addressed to Timothée, although it was more of a memo than it was a letter. This memo was in regard to Luca’s absence that afternoon and his inability to meet at their usual times, although he refrained from mentioning that the reason for his absence was because he was to set off on his own endeavor to personally deliver the first letter he had written that morning to the residence of his business partner and co-owner of his business, a man that he addressed as Filomarino, as soon as he should finished his second cup of coffee.

Upon preparing to leave, Luca called a servant to delivery his mother’s letter to a post box and Timothée’s letter to his room after considering whether he should attend to him quickly that morning. He ultimately decided that he’d no time to waste as he needed to prepare for the Mid-Summer Ball upon returning home and had promised Timothée in writing that they would depart by seven-o'-clock that evening. Letter in hand, the Master climbed into the backseat of his fastest carriage and set off for the House of Filomarino with as much haste that which he’d fled from the Mid-Summer Festival upon recognizing the familiar face of a fellow aristocrat as he sat across the crowd from where Timothée and Luca were situated that morning, eying him with a suspicious and malicious eye.

~~~

Timothée leaned his head lazily against the bathroom mirror, still naked and dripping wet from his noontime bath and with a towel around his waist and Armie’s head positioned between his legs. After having taken Timothée into his mouth and feeling his pleasure spill down his throat while the Omega perched upon the countertop, he then took to licking and kissing the soft skin around his inner thighs as Timothée sighed and tussled his hair endearingly.

Armie, upon witnessing the Master’s hasty exit from the estate and learning from a manservant of his absence that afternoon, had decided to sneak up to east wing and grace Timothée with a sexual treat following his noontime bath. The Master’s own memo to Timothée was discovered by him only moments before he’d undressed to wash, and he read it with excited delight from inside the bathtub while imagining how he might spend time with his Armie while the Master was away.

“Armand,” Timothée sighed as Armie pulled away. He closed his legs and sat cross-legged on the counter, now feeling tired from his warm bath and from being pleasured by Armie’s generous mouth. “What are we to do today, then?”

“Is it still in your mind to head into town for the second day of the festival?”

“We cannot,” Timothée said and leapt from the counter toward his bedroom. He dropped his towel before beginning to ruffle through his dresser drawers, thus allowing Armie a stunning view of his body while he lounged upon his bed and waited for him to dress.

“Well, _I_ cannot. You may go if you desire.”

“Oh?”

“In the Master’s memo,” Timothée said, buttoning a mint green blouse over his narrow chest. “He ordered to remain at the estate until his return, though he’d not mentioned why.”

“And you’re _really_ to follow that order in the Master’s absence?”

“I am.”

Armie was surprised by Timothée’s bluntness when only yesterday, _he_ had been the one that Armie had to convince to leave the festival. Neither had caught further word about the events that had taken place during their departure, and it seemed as though Armie’s curiosity had flourished while Timothée’s diminished.

Timothée, now dressed in casual attire, started towards the bed and nestled himself onto the larger man’s lap. He pressed into him with a deep kiss before pulling away and examining his face. Armie’s eyes were shut, allowing Timothée to admire the lines and creases around his eyes, lips, and brows. The features of his face were quite relaxed— if he weren’t upright, he would more likely look as if he were asleep— although Timothée wondered whether he would find a hint of concern or worry in his blue eyes whenever they’d open to look at him. Were Armie able to sense the unease that ran through Timothée’s body while he sat upon his lap? Could he tell that, while the most desired object of his was sitting peacefully still beneath his own lap, his other desired object called from across the room in the form of a bottle of Ambrosia that he had so discreetly tucked between the folds of his blouses? Could he tell that, as curious as he had once been about the happenings at the Mid-Summer festival, there was nothing Timothée now desired more than to shut himself in and indulge in the two loves of his life?

Timothée was ecstatic upon realizing the Master’s absence that afternoon, but the timing of his endeavors had gone awry with Armie’s surprise visit, and he pondered upon how he could sneak a sip of his bottle with Armie in the room.

The older man supposedly hadn’t realized Timothée’s troubled headspace because when he reopened his blue eyes, they looked upon the freshly bathed Omega with nothing but adoration, his wet curls still dripping water upon the shoulders of his blouse.

“If I’m not to change your mind,” Armie succumbed. “Then I suppose I’ll be staying in today as well. There’s still tomorrow to enjoy the festival.”

Timothée smiled.

“Is it alright if I meet you in a moment? Downstairs? I’ve had one other thing to take care of.”

Armie pursed his lips, having wished to remain in his chambers for a moment more. He wanted nothing more than to take Timothée into his bedsheets as he had exactly one week prior, but they had since decided that their stealthy plans to meet again after hours were not to commence until after the chaos of the Mid-Summer Festival subsided. Armie, however, couldn’t understand why they _shouldn’t_ take the opportunity to lay together while the Master was away that afternoon.

“Do you wish for me to go now?”

“Yes.”

Again, Timothée’s rather blunt tone caught Armie off-guard, but upon the boy’s wishes, he collected himself, placed a kiss upon the back of his thin hand, and started for the door.

“Have you visited the archery grounds recently?” Timothée called to him upon his leaving, feeling guilty and deceitful for wanting Armie gone from his chambers so swiftly.

“I have not.”

“May I meet you there in a moment?”

“Yes,” Armie said with a smile. “Of course.”

Upon listening with keen ears to the sound of Armie’s footsteps descending the staircase outside of his bedroom door, Timothée leapt from his seat on the bed and dug into the dresser drawer for his sickly-sweet potion. He twisted the words in his head into something that may justify his drinking of Ambrosia so early in the day as he took his first sip.

‘I shouldn’t be indulging in this so early’ was spun into ‘I am going to indulge in this no matter what today, so I may as well get it over with as well.’

He took another sip.

‘I solely need to indulge in a single sip in order to curb the craving’ was spun into ‘this single sip may not curb the craving completely, so I may as well sip again so as to curb it completely and keep the craving from returning.’

He took another sip.

‘Armie will be disappointed should I meet him in an untimely manner as a result of indulging in this’ spun itself into ‘Armie will be disappointed, but I no longer care as much as I should whether he is disappointed in me or not.’

He took another sip.

Upon that final sip, Timothée was already warm and buzzing with need and lust, and after deciding that he was in too obvious of a state to go to Armie to satisfy him, he slumped back onto his mattress and began to pleasure himself.

Much to Armie’s disappointment and impatient, Timothée eventually left to meet with his beloved on the archery grounds after having pleasured himself and fallen asleep from exhaustion around 2 hours after their initial noontime meeting.

~~~

“Finished already?” Armie asked Timothée, who was already red and panting in the mid-afternoon sun a mere thirty minutes after they had begun to shoot.

“No,” Timothée panted, dropping his bow to his side after missing another shot and huffing out of nostrils. Even after his unplanned nap, his body was much too drained of any energy to either shoot well or to defend himself, and he now wanted nothing more than to succumb to another deep slumber. He had not once shot a single arrow into any of the targets across the wide, green field before them, nor had he once offered any sort of explanation as to why he had arrived so much later than Armie would have expected beyond his initial excuse that regarded his losing track of time while he had been penning an entry into his diary.

Armie’s face showed signed of visible vexation when Timothée had finally stumbled out onto the veranda adjacent to the archery fields where he had been waiting a near two hours. He had wanted nothing more than to spend as much time as the afternoon could allow them together, although Timothée’s unexplained absence, along with his inability to enjoy himself in the company of his beloved after Armie had waited so long for to arrive, was further fostering Armie’s irritability with the boy.

“I would have assumed after that nap of yours that you’d be leaping with energy,” Armie said while preparing his next shot. His voice suggested a slight of annoyance, and he then felt guilty at allowing his bitterness to seep into his tone as Timothée looked on at the targets in the distance in quiet vexation.

And so the two men continued to shoot with an uneasy air about them, with Timothée missing at least three prepared targets for every four targets that Armie successfully shot. It had been a few weeks since the pair had last visited the archery grounds on the north side of the estate on some quiet June evening only an hour before dinner that evening. Armie could very well recall having watched the younger man align his arrow atop his steadied hand with the focus of a fox eying its next prey across a lush plain, admiring the way the breeze brushed the frame of brown curls against his determined brow and examining his arched, poised back with an aching curiosity of how it looked beneath his blouse. The images of their last meeting on the archery grounds portrayed a stunningly different version of Timothée than that of which Armie was looking at now. Timothée, slouching over with a skulking look on his face that which wasn’t dissimilar to that of a bratty child’s, seemed tired, disinterested, and even sickly. Armie’s irritability with Timothée gradually shifted into that of concern with every gasping breath that Timothée succumbed to with every shot.

“Timothée,” Armie started, sheathing the arrow he had already plucked from his quiver. The boy, who was desperately glugging water out of a pitcher, looked up at him with tired eyes. “Is everything alright?”

“With me? Of course I’m alright,” Timothée chirped, his spritely voice suddenly mismatched with his seemingly exhausted demeanor. The younger man’s slouched posture, low energy, and sallow complexion was an obvious indication of him not being alright, and Armie was shocked by Timothée’s ability to spit such a blatant lie.

“No,” Armie countered. “You’re not.”

“I’m not sure that I understand you.”

“You seem unquestionably unlike yourself than you were just this morning. Has something occurred?”

“The only _odd_ thing that has occurred since this morning is your obvious irritability with my untimeliness,” Timothée spat in a plain and detached tone that was quite uncharacteristic of himself. On top of his already aching limbs, his head began to pound as a residual effect of the Ambrosia, and his mind began to convert his internal wounds into external wounds that had been afflicted upon him by Armie’s jabbing looks from across the archery grounds.

“If you are upset with me and my untimeliness, then I suggest you merely saying so rather than feigning concern for me.”

Timothée’s own heart ached at the bitter words he allowed to flow from his lips, and he’d none more desired a net to cast up and catch the words at the moment he’d tossed them into the air so as to keep them from wounding Armie, but it was all too late. Armie was insulted and wounded at the Omega’s reaction to such an genuine question of his, and his mind suddenly flooded with keywords that he had long associated with male Omegas prior to his falling for Timothée. 

_Deviant._

_Dishonest._

_Crass._

_False._

This Omega, what with his deceitful charm and insincerity, could have been an actor in another life.

Armie reeled himself back and fought the urge to fire an insult back at the younger man, instead taking a moment to ponder upon how he might approach Timothée in his now volatile state. Timothée, now stony faced and focused, removed an arrow from his quiver and aligned it to his bow. He pulled the arrow back against the taut string with such a stifled fierceness behind his green eyes that Armie feared he might suddenly turn the bow upon him and strike him through the heart.

“Is there anything more?” Timothée said, his voice as steady as his hand. Armie couldn’t yet answer. The string of the bow was released, thus sending the arrow flying forward and into the brush behind the prepared target. Another miss.

“Are we to meet this evening?” Armie asked plainly in reference to their earlier-discussed plans to meet casually that evening after the Mid-Summer Ball. Although there still remained a few hours before the Master was to arrive back at the estate, Timothée and Armie’s afternoon encounter had somehow turned sour enough to plant a seed of doubt into Armie’s mind as to whether they should spend further time together before the Master’s return.

Guilt crept its way up Timothée’s spine—guilt regarding his inability to moderate his indulgence of Ambrosia, guilt regarding his crassness toward Armie, guilt regarding his indecision to confess the truth of that morning’s events to Armie—and made itself comfortable upon a small spot on the back of his neck. It wrapped its spidery fingers around Timothée’s neck in a sort of chokehold, keeping Timothée from speaking his own truth and from spurting out the apology he so wished to grant Armie.

Before he could manage to shake the guilt, shame, and fear far enough away to allow himself to answer for Armie, the sound of a man-servant’s voice called from the veranda.

“Hear— I’ve come to announce the near-arrival of the Master of the House! He’s returned early and should invite his Omega-in-waiting to the drawing room for tea!”

Timothée parted his lips in surprise and displeasure at the sight and sound of the manservant on the veranda, and he turned again to Armie, who mirrored that same look of surprise and disappointment in his own countenance. Timothée’s eyelids then fluttered in a look of fret and distress, and the older man easily read his expression as sincerely apologetic before offering the younger man a soft and understanding look of comfort and consolation. With a sad and regretful sigh, Timothée returned his archery bow to his shoulder harness before beginning to back away from his beloved.

“I can—I’ll leave a message,” He stammered. “I’ll leave a note to you about tonight, I promise.”

The professor watched sympathetically as the younger man slipped and tumbled over his words while seeming to search for an excuse or an apology. As Timothée could not find the words for either, he swiftly turned his step toward the direction of the north wing of the estate and ran off the field of the archery grounds, leaving Armie behind to listen to the sound of Timothée’s shoes stepping off the soft, green grass and then clicking against the worn brick of the veranda.


	11. The Mid-Summer Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothée attends a ball at a nearby estate with Master Luca while Armie learns of happening that took place during the opening day of the Mid-Summer Festival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very long, detailed chapter divided into 6 smaller sections with more character appearances and shit really beginning to hit the fan.

### Chapter 11

~~~

> _My dearest,_
> 
> _I cannot yet explain to you the reason for our rift earlier this afternoon— all I can currently say is that the blame lies entirely with me. If you so desire, I would be more than willing to speak further with you on the matter should you decide to meet me in my quarters tonight._ Should _you decide to meet with me, I will alert you at 11-o’-clock this evening in the manner that we earlier arranged._
> 
> _I pray that you’ll decide to come, and I’ll yearn for you until then._
> 
> _—T_

Professor Armand Hammer reached into his pocket and touched the folded letter that which Timothée had left before he departed that evening for the Mid-Summer Ball. He had barely been able to catch a glimpse of the boy before his departure, and having only spotted a trace of his backside as he’d fled around the corner of the hall after dropping his note off in the music room, Armie was met with a bout of longing and concern at the avoidant and erratic behavior of his beloved.

Upon entering the vacant bedroom of the Omega-of-the-house, Armie removed his hand from his pocket and traced it along the velvet-lined headboard of his bed and examined the mess of sheets, clothes, and various belongings that Timothée had abandoned in his haste. Although he felt a bit unsettled and invasive at being within Timothée’s quarters without him present, his longing and concern for the boy was bubbling over, as was a creeping sense of distrust towards the Omega.

Armie had guiltily thought that, should he stumble across any piece of evidence that could indicate the reasoning behind Timothée’s odd behavior, he could use that evidence as leverage against whatever argument Timothée may employ that evening when explaining himself. But how crass this mode of thinking was— to anticipate that Timothée would _lie_ to him for any reason that evening, and to rummage through his personal belongings solely because of this distrustful notion?

Armie began to ponder whether it were _himself_ that were the dishonest lover in this equation, and perhaps it were his former notions about the dishonesty and deceitfulness of male Omegas that were warping his thoughts around Timothée.

As far as he knew, Timothée was the most genuine and sincere being he had ever crossed, and he had no reason to believe that Timothée should ever be dishonest with him. This, however, did not stop Armie from tracing the creases in Timothée’s bedsheets that which he had writhed about in during his Ambrosia-induced frenzy of lust only earlier that day. 

Armie raised his hands to his face after searching about the folds of his bedsheets in hopes of stealing a lingering trace of Timothée’s scent, and was instead surprised to recognize the bittersweet scent of lavender and rye upon his fingers. A questioning look crossed his face as he bent his head over, taking in an even stronger waft of the familiar scent— but where had he recognized this scent from?

_Timothée, it smells of Timothée…_

_No, it smells of chemicals…_

_It smells of the bar room—_

_t smells of the music room, but only after Timothée’s been present._

_It smells of Timothée…_

Armie traced the folds of the bed, taking in the scent of sweat, of pleasure. There in the creases— a fresh, white stain of someone’s pleasure upon the dirtied sheets. The memory of Timothée’s hostile, avoidant behavior fused with the image of fresh sex upon his bedsheets.

_Who had been here?_

He then imagines his beloved wrapped and writhing in the sheets, touching himself, touching another. The hands of another upon Timothée’s naked waist, the fingers of another between Timothée’s lips as he moans through them like a whore, the body of another thrusting up between Timothée’s lithe legs while he whimpers and whines for more.

_The fucking tramp!_

Armie, with his face burning white-hot, scowled to himself in scorn and jealousy as he thrashed the bedsheets to the side, revealing a small, uncapped flask that leaks of the bittersweet scent of lavender and rye onto the mattress covering.

At being met with the source of the potent scent, Armie was triggered by the recognition of the night he had encountered this bittersweet concoction— he had tasted it on the evening of Timothée’s debut performance. He grabbed the flask up with a shaky hand and recalled the name of the potion. _Ambrosia no. 5._

Armie’s mind, while churning with confusion and betrayal, was abruptly knocked out of its raging path of racing thoughts at the sound of a mechanical knocking and clicking. Upon spinning around toward the sudden sound, he found himself met with the shocked and surprised expression of a young nurse standing in the doorway, her wide eyes locked on Armie as she uttered a single statement in French beneath her breathe.

_“I knew it.”_

~~~

By 9-o’-clock that evening, Timothée was so physically and socially exhausted from the Mid-Summer Ball that he felt no more like a bag of bones than he did a person.

Timothée, as distressed as he had been earlier that day, had somehow found it within himself to thoroughly enjoy the first half of the ball. The carriage ride proved to be one of much distress for him, each bump along the road prodding him from his daydreams of Armie and the strings of endless apologies that he was ruminating over in his mind, but upon arriving at the Fasano Estate and taking in the sheer elegance and warm, inviting atmosphere of the grand ballroom, Timothée could not help but feel his woes sweep away with the spirit of the Mid-Summertime.

Timothée had been met with wealthy socialites from far and wide and their Omegas-in-waiting alike, and the attendees had buzzed about the ball, adorned in their best ensembles and with such joyous and carefree spirits, that Timothée was left wondering whether the seemingly-chaotic demonstrations from the previous day of the festival had resolved by the second day, allowing everyone to dine and dance without woe. All were treated to divinely delectable hors d’oeuvres, aged wines and bubbly bottles of champagne, and the musical stylings of a renowned string ensemble, and it was seemingly impossible for anyone to find themselves unimpressed by the delights that were presented to them within the opulently decorated hall. Donned in an ensemble of silver satin and new leather shoes, Timothée had been swept so effortlessly around the dance floor by Master Luca, who seemed just as lively and as ease as all the other socialites, in such a way that Timothée couldn’t imagine to question his Master about his whereabouts that afternoon and ruin the mood.

Though his bones ached from dancing and voice hoarsened from speaking so vigorously to the other ball attendees, who had happily engaged with him between their sips of champagne, Timothée’s spirit was filled with light-heartedness and delight when he decided to break away from the ball and rest on a nearby terrace after departing from his waltz with the Master with a kiss upon his sleeve.

Upon leaving the main ballroom through a backdoor, Timothée was met with the peaceful silence of the gardens that surrounded the veranda. He padded across the white-brick tile in an almost zig-zag way, courtesy of his third glass of champagne that he had laced with a drop of Ambrosia, and rested upon the railing of the terrace, leaning his elbows upon it and taking in the scent of the nearby pines and peonies.

“Is this a bother to you?”

A woman’s voice suddenly came from across the terrace, and Timothée could not understand how he had not noticed the tall, brunette woman leaning against the railing with cigarette smoke billowing from between her lips.

“The smoke? Not at all.”

“I’m glad, then.”

“Actually,” Timothée said, memorized by the sheer gracefulness of the elegant older woman as she stood donned in a black velvet gown and silver jewels of an exotic and opulent style, her long brown locks swept up into an updo that framed her tastefully made-up face. “Have you an extra pipe?”

“I’ve not an extra, but if you would so desire,” The woman said, holding out her pipe so as to offer Timothée a puff. Her lilting voice was so enchanting to young man that he could not refrain from offering her a sheepish smile, and he accepted the pipe before inhaling a gust of burnt tobacco. The odd pair stood adjacent at the railing and gazed out over the garden together, Timothée feeling both thrilled and nervous in the presence of such a sophisticated socialite who, unlike most of the other masters and mistresses he had encountered, seemed to treat him with warm civility.

“You’re an Omega-courtesan, yes?” The woman mused. “I believe I’d seen you dancing with the Master of the House of Guadagnino.”

“Yes, he is my Master,” The boy coughed, unused to the taste of tobacco in his throat. “And my name is Timothée,”

“Ah Timothée— yes, I had heard of your debuting into high society. I’d once myself had an Omega that was as new and naïve to the entire experience as probably are.”

Timothée did not whether to regard her statement as condescending or sympathetic, but her warm presence lent him to believe the latter.

“So you’ve been residing at the Guadagnino estate then?” She continued. “You must be familiar with a former acquaintance of mine.”

The tall, elegant woman blew a puff of smoke out over the railing of the terrace before returning her mesmerizing gaze to the doe-eyed Omega courtesan that had kept her company.

“You can address me as Madame Elizabeth, Mistress and Head of the House of Chambers.”

~~~

“Miss,” Armie stuttered. “I’ve not—this isn’t as it appears.”

At the sound of Armie’s shaking voice, the nurse in the doorway swiftly turned away from the large man and started in an attempt to leave, though Armie had caught her on the stairwell just outside of his room.

“Miss, please!”

He seized her by her small, delicate wrist and immediately felt awash with guilt at hearing the frightened gasp that escaped her lips as a result of his forcefulness, but he refused to release her until he could know indefinitely that she would not speak of his presence in Timothée’s chambers to anyone.

“Miss, please, this isn’t as it appears to be—I was only—”

“Leave me be!” The nurse shouted, cursing in French. Armie attempted to shush her, pulling her toward him and begging to her in a hushed and panicked voice as she continued to wriggle from his grip.

“Leave me be! I knew it was you!”

“I haven’t touched Timothée!” Armie pleaded, panicked and confused at her sudden accusations. Had Timothée spoken of their affair to others around the estate?

“I swear it on my life, Miss! I beg you not to speak of my being here!”

“No!” She hissed, now speaking in an equally hushed voice. “You’ve done it! You’ve done it!”

“I’ve not done a thing! What are you—”

“What was your doing? To plant another bottle in his chambers? Sneak him his poison?”

Confused and distracted by her words, Armie loosened his grip on her wrist, and the nurse angrily shook his hand away. The nurse no longer seemed in an attempt to escape and instead stood her ground before him with a furious look upon her face.

“I knew it had been you,” She began. “I _saw_ the flask in your hand!”

“The flask—?”

“Do _not_ feign innocence with— I know that you are aware of the consequences of your smuggling that wretched poison to him. It’s obvious to me that he’s been unwell, increasingly so since you and he have been keeping each other so much company.”

Armie’s mind weaved behind the young woman’s accusing statements and tried to make sense of it.

“I don’t know what you’re speaking of, truly I don’t,” Armie said in an exasperated tone. His face was genuinely wrought with concern and confusion, and the nurse could almost begin to detect a sense of sincerity from the man. “The ambrosia? That’s what is in the flask correct?”

“I know not of the name, though I know something has been wrong with Timothée for weeks now, and the only reasoning behind it is linked to the smell of that wretched poison that is constantly lingering on his breathe and clothes.”

“I’ve sensed it, too, but I promise you I’ve _nothing_ to do with his consumption of that substance,” Armie begged. “He’s not told me a word about it.”

“I don’t believe you, what reason do I have to believe you?”

“What reason _don’t_ you have to believe me?” Armie countered. “For what reason would I _ever_ bear ill will towards Timothée? Why would I have such involvement?”

The young nurse eased a little, though she never lifted her suspicious eye from Armie. He could tell that she was trying to make sense of the situation as much as he was.

“You have some of the closest ties to the Master out of any of the other staff on the estate,” She said while she scrutinizing every inch of Armie’s face, reading into every line and crease as if searching for an answer to some sort puzzle. “And I know of your ties to high society and the other socialites in the kingdom.”

“What does that have to do with anything? And many of those ties have been long-severed.”

“It has _everything_ to do with ambrosia, and Timothée’s consumption of it,” The nurse continued. “We _know_ of the Master’s involvement, too. Everyone does!”

“ _What_ are you speaking of?” Armie begged. “ _What_ involvement? I swear to you on the Lord’s name that I truly and wholly know _nothing_ of what you’re speaking of. The Master has spoken to me of nothing related to Timothée in weeks, nor do I know a thing about Ambrosia— that flask was already present in Timothée’s room and consumed by him. I was not smuggling him anything, if that’s what you are assuming.”

The nurse paused for a crucial moment before rushing past Armie and going to Timothée’s bed, where the mess of fresh pleasure sat under the emptied flask of Ambrosia. She gasped in slight shock and disgust at her up-close witnessing of the stained bedsheets and lifted the flask to her nose.

“Empty your pockets,” She demanded. Armie was utterly confused and knew nothing of how to be sure that this encounter could be kept a secret between them, so he proceeded to empty his pockets to prove whatever it was that the nurse desired. Timothée’s letter flew from his pocket and landed on the floor, the nurse snatching it up a moment later.

“Wait—!”

“Quiet— I’m still not trustful that you’ve not been involved with all this revolving around Timothée and his consumption,” The nurse said, unfolding the small paper as Armie dropped his head in defeat and shame, his face now burning with resentment.

“Oh,” She began. “Oh…”

“I had not come to lay harm upon Timothée,” Armie said through gritted teeth, enunciating each word with clear deliberation so as to convince the nurse of his benign intentions. “I had come to seek out that which had been harming Timothée. Can you not see from this correspondence that Timothée has been keeping me in the dark about something that’s been troubling him? That which could only be this Ambrosia consumption, that which I’ve known nothing about up until I’d found this emptied flask only moments before you entered?”

The nurse looked at Armie with a guilty and shameful countenance. Her cheeks blushed crimson as she heaved a great sigh of exasperation and concern.

“So you and Timothée… This correspondence…”

“Yes, we’ve been romantically involved,” Armie finally admitted. The nurse’s brown eyes widened at this revelation, but she continued on past this fact and returned with her musings upon Timothée’s consumption.

“If that is so…” The nurse began. “If all you’ve said is true, then what _do_ you know of Ambrosia? What have you seen of Timothée’s consumption?”

“I know only what I’d experienced once of it when I attained it at the hands of the bar room tender, it was solely out of curiosity. If I recall correctly, it was immediately effective in making me feel… Lustful beyond anything I’d ever imagined. That was it.”

“That was all?”

“No—I suppose, it was a lust beyond anything I could have ever imagined, a lust that seemingly took control over my body and forced me into acting in a way that I couldn’t otherwise control,” Armie racked his brain for the memory. “I was spellbound.”

“Yes, yes I had heard that…”

“And you? What do you know of it?”

The young nurse shook her head in despair and disgust at the thought of the wretched substance.

“Had you heard of the uprisings in town? Surely you’d seen the commotion on the opening day of the Mid-Summer Festival—all the protesting and whatnot.”

“Yes, I had,” Armie said, though he continued to wonder how this was all connected and how this young nurse seemed to know so much more than he.

“Some manufacturer of Ambrosia has allegedly been smuggling excessive amounts into the Omega boarding houses within the kingdom, and Omega escorts are being exploited to its addictive qualities,” The nurse said, her voice low and dark with seriousness. “Three Omegas had died of an overdose in the past week leading up to the Mid-Summer Festival. _That_ is the reason for the uprising.”

~~~

“Armand and I had attended the same university,” Madame Elizabeth said after accepting a glass of champagne from a servant that had emerged onto the veranda to offer the pair of outcasts some refreshments. Timothée, feeling his stomach could not handle another glass of bubbly champagne, opted for a white wine if only to impress the sophisticated socialite with his choice of drink. The young Omega felt more sophisticated himself even just being in the presence of this mistress, sipping wine and sharing tobacco on a white-brick veranda with a wealthy aristocrat, as though he were finally blending into the high-brow crowd of high society.

“Yes, he’s mentioned his schooling plenty of times, though I’m not sure if I recall his ever mentioning of you in particular?” Timothée said. “But perhaps it’s slipped my memory.”

“Oh no, no, no,” The Mistress chuckled. “I couldn’t imagine it so, though we were actually of _quite_ close acquaintance. Are you of much familiarity with him?”

The Omega nodded and smirked internally. _Yes, Madame, Armand and I are_ quite _familiar with each other._

“Then you’re familiar with his charismatic wit and charm, I suppose.”

The older woman, seeming slightly affected by her champagne, pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead in a faux-swooning gesture.

“Oh, how girls would line the blocks in hopes of having a chance with him—and the confidence that man could pull off!”

Regardless of whether Timothée could tell if the Mistress were gesturing in a sarcastic or mocking way, he chuckled in delight at her humor and hoped that the blushing of his cheeks was undetectable in the low-light of the veranda. He swooned himself at the thought of Armie in his university days— young, handsome, and confident, and perhaps even more naïve than Timothée was.

“He was quite the delight to everyone he’d come across— an object to be desired—though it was _I_ that he could never seem to stray from,” The Mistress sighed, sounding more casual than nostalgic. “We were inseparable for the better half of a decade.”

Timothée understood that, despite the Mistress’ initial ambiguity regarding her acquaintance with Armie, she seemed as though she were she were subtly hinting toward something more than that. At that last statement, Timothée then recalled Armie’s mentioning of a woman in his past that he had been romantically tied to for much of his youth, and his heart began to churn with some sort of indescribable feeling that resembled that of longing and jealousy as he imagined his beloved having had his arms around this other woman for so many years. What could Timothée, an inexperienced and naïve Omega courtesan that had barely been in Armie’s life for more than a couple months, ever have on this beautiful, sophisticated socialite Mistress?

“We’ve long separated though— our lives and differences were simply far too great.”

“I’m sorry to hear so…So you’ve not kept in touch…?”

Timothée gulped from his glass and waited for her continuation, worrying of whether he were toeing the line of personal details too closely.

“No, unfortunately not,” The Mistress said, waving her hand away. “Although it’s a shame. I’d heard his work at the festival yesterday— stunning, wasn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Timothée agreed. “I’ve been fortunate enough to witness so much of his musical talent. He’s actually tutored me in piano-playing since his arrival at the estate.”

“He has?” The Mistress glanced at him with an arched brow.

“He has…”

“Hm,” The Mistress mused, pressing the rim of her champagne glass to her lips without taking a sip. “I would never have thought that Armand—at least the Armand that I’d been well-acquainted with—would take to such a role. His opinions on Omegas were warped, to say the least.”

“How so? I-If I may inquire.”

Madame Elizabeth tapped the glass upon her lower lip in a matter that indicated to Timothée that she was deep in thought. There was a general opinion on male Omegas that Timothée was obviously so well aware of amongst the aristocrats and peasants alike, but his stomach churned with disdain and nausea at the thought that Armie would have molded him into that whoring stereotype.

The Mistress turned back to Timothée and took her glass away from her mouth, offering him a sympathetic smile as if she could sense his unease.

“I must say, my own former Omega courtesan was similar to you,” She began. “Always so curious and kind—I had never imagined him to be any lesser than those of a different sexual class, and thus had treated him as such—Not as a slave but as a companion. Though, since I’d married, I’ve sent him an allowance to attend a university where he currently studies economics.

“What I mean to say is that, there are those that _choose_ to be ignorant to the talents, intelligence, and potentials of male Omegas, and those that do not. Armand was of the former category, and that is all I shall divulge.”

Timothée’s stomach felt sick, either from the Mistress’ words or the wine. His Armie was nothing short of the kindest man he had ever crossed—a man that he could never less than idolize in his mind for his ever-patient demeanor and genuine ear for listening to his every concern—and he dove into drunkenness at the next large gulp that he consumed in preference of dizzying delights over sober worries.

“I apologize if my statements had disturbed you,” The Mistress eventually apologized.

The Omega forced a sheepish smile upon his face and tucked his worries away at the sight of the Mistress peering over at him with sympathetic eyes.

“There’s nothing to worry of.”

~~~

The nurse, who had introduced herself to Armie as Esther, sat at upon Armand’s desk chair, feeling Armand peer over her shoulder at the news article that laid upon his desk. Since the news of the three Omegas’ deaths had so swiftly swarmed amongst the townsfolk in the form of gossip and thus sparked an outrage amongst a group of male Omega advocate and allies, Armie learned from Esther that Master Luca had taken the initiative to withhold the weekly newspaper’s arrival at the estate so as to slow the speed that which the house staff would learn of the scandal.

“I received this paper from an acquaintance of mine outside the estate,” Esther began. “When the newspaper deliveries hadn’t arrived on Wednesday, I had assumed that there was a delay in the printing process or something of that sort.”

She pointed to the headlining article. _THREE OMEGAS DEAD OF SIMILARLY SUSPECTED CAUSES._

“Then I’d heard from a coachman that he had witnessed a mail carrier being stopped at our gates, and the entire delivery of newspaper was evidently filtered out and sent to the Master’s chambers. Since this rumor, everyone on the house staff has been suspicious of the Master’s actions.”

Armie recalled the gossip that he had heard from his musicians about some sort of alleged demonstration that was to take place during the Mid-Summer Festival and of the impending dangers that would be tied to such, but his mind was too clouded by his preparation of his composition that he had thought little of it being anything more than a rumor.

“So, everyone is presuming that the Master may have something to do with the deaths of these Omegas?”

“Indeed. The Master maintains discretion surrounding his business matters. The most that anyone knows is that he is involved with the production of some sort of commercial substance— and the ambiguity surrounding his business is what seems to be goading these suspicions along.”

“And the Ambrosia?”

“That is the name of the supposed substance that is being catered toward the Omega boarding houses—this rumor had long been circulated—”

“—But the sudden deaths of these Omegas are that which that are causing everyone to act?” Armie finished. Esther nodded and continued.

“Everyone on the estate has taken note of the Master’s odd behavior since the news of the Omega deaths had emerged, and since the demonstrations yesterday, there have been further speculations about our Master’s involvement.”

“What speculations?”

“I don’t know,” Esther said in a defeated tone. “The demonstrations yesterday were largely ignored by much of the public, the majority of whom could care less about tragedies involving male Omegas. There was another demonstration today, but I’d heard that Ambrosia production has since halted without a trace to its origins, thus no one knows to whom to base any accusation.”

Armie felt into his pants pocket for the small, folded-up piece of parchment from that which had been left for him by Timothée. This Ambrosia— this wretched poison— seemed to be at the root of everyone’s suspicions as well as Timothée’s troubles, and the fact that such a dangerous poison had been evidenced in his bedsheets made him shake with anger. His avoidant behavior, lethargy, distracted eye, and smattered pleasure on the stained bedsheets tied into a conclusion that caused a heap of fear and anger to swell within Armie’s chest. How could he had been so blind to the telling scent that so often lingered on Timothée’s lips?

Armie subconsciously based the blame of Timothée’s danger on the Master of the House, and he found that he had been clenching his jaw to the point of soreness for most of the time that these details were being expounded by Esther.

“What are we to do?” Armie said, his voice almost shaking with rage. “What are we to do about this wretchedness— about that damned poison?”

Esther stood from Armie’s desk chair to pace around in front of a covered window, undoing her low bun and running her hands through her thick, wavy head of brown hair in a fretful and worried manner. In the meanwhile, Armie took to his own desk chair and traced the ink upon the newspaper with a shaking finger.

_Addictive qualities._

_Male Omegas._

_Prostitute boarding houses._

Armie pulled his hand from the paper, held his face in his palms, and began to weave words together in his mind in anticipation of Timothée’s eventual return from the ball, pondering upon how he should confront him of these detrimental matters before rising from his seat and looking to Esther with a determined eye.

~~~

By the time that Timothée was alongside Master Luca in the back of the carriage, he was unmistakably drunk. After having been swayed and swept around the ballroom for another hour after his encounter on the veranda and having polished off another few glasses of delectable wine, Timothée had buzzed about the crowd of socialites in such a natural manner that those who had had the fortune to be in close proximity to him found themselves irresistibly drawn to his bubbly and carefree charm.

‘ _Who needs Armand when everyone adores me here?’_ was not Timothée’s original thought when he had eventually found his spirits at their highest elevation. His initial intentions were to drink off the woes of Armie’s past that had plagued him following his conversation with Madame Elizabeth, who had ended up offering him a dance or two once they returned to the ballroom. Timothée sought to drink wine as a replacement to his lack of Ambrosia since he had only brought a very small vial with him to the ball, and before he knew it, the young Omega had tumbled through glass after glass before tumbling into the backseat of the carriage.

Overall, the Mid-Summer Ball proved to be the first social event of which that Timothée felt as though he finally belonged. Madame Elizabeth’s interest in keeping his company had boosted his confidence ten-fold, and even Luca seemed to watch on as Timothée socialized with fellow Omega-courtesans with pleasant approval. Timothée felt himself glowing with delight and very slight nausea as he leaned his head against Luca’s shoulder, listening to the clunk of hooves against the ground as he shut his starry eyes and waited to the carriage to arrive back at the estate.

Meanwhile, Armand and Esther found themselves in the empty bar room, ducking behind shelves of liquor with only the small flame of a candle to guide them after Esther had guided them in by way of an irresponsibly unlocked backdoor.

“Do you recall exactly how the bottle looked?” Esther whispered to Armie in the dark, peering behind a dusty shelf of neglected vodkas. A small spider emerged from behind a bottle as she nudged it aside, causing her to yelp in alarm.

“I’m not sure… I have a sense that it might have been unmarked. It was a dark-colored glass, too. Navy or purple or grey…” Armie answered, eying a shelf of multiple bottles that were all unmarked, their labels stripped off over time or by other means. Picking up one of a familiar shape and form, he twisted off the cap so as to waft his nose over it and determine whether it contained the sickly bittersweet substance that he and Esther were so determined to find and conceal somewhere elsewhere.

At that simultaneous moment, Timothée stirred at sound of the carriage door opening up as he felt the Master’s arm curl around his tired body.

“Timothée, we have arrived,” Master Luca said softly in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. “Are you in any state to walk?”

“Yes, of course,” The Omega slurred, smiling up at his Master and peering over his face in the doorway of the carriage toward the glowing Mid-Summer Moon. A manservant appeared at the Master’s side with a small candlelit lantern in hand so as to lead them to the front door of the estate, and Timothée was suddenly met with delight at the memory of his plans to meet with Armie that night. “Yes, of course I can walk!”

Timothée excitedly slid out of the carriage at a speed that which his feeble legs could not manage, and the Master promptly caught him before he could melt to the pavement.

“Use caution, my dear.”

Esther offered her knapsack to Armie at his request and promptly gasped at the sound of a creaking floor as the man took an unmarked, dark bottle from the shelf before them.

“Are you sure? Are you sure this is the one?”

“I _know_ it— this was the bottle! And smell it— this is even the scent—!”

Another sound emerged from beyond the walls of the bar room that resembles that of footsteps. Whether these sounds came from a night-watchman or the alcoholic-dependent manservants who would occasionally creep into the bar room after hours for a drink were of no interest for either Armie or Esther to find out, and they stilled in fear of being detected.

“Armand! We have to depart!”

The remainder of the estate was quiet, dark, and uninhabited beside the Master and his Omega-courtesan around his arm. Timothée, judging by the time that was displayed on the Master’s wristwatch, saw that it was already half-past-ten-o’clock and that he had only a half-hour before he was to send his signal to Armie that which would indicate his readiness to meet him that night. This signaling, which was to be enacted after Timothée’s nightly session with the Master, sent a spark of excitement down Timothée’s spine and encouraged him to take the Master into his bed as quickly as possibly so as to allow him enough time to prepare for Armie’s arrival afterwards.

“Come, come!” Timothée slurred, still bubbling and beaming with drunkenness. His heart swirled and spun with the thoughts of his upcoming reconciling with his true beloved as he skipped and tripped down the dark halls of the estate. “Come quickly, faster!”

“Use caution, use caution, my dear!” Master Luca chuckled quietly, seeming to be just as well in a lingering state of happy drunkenness.

“No, faster!” Timothée giggled. “Here, we can take a short cut! Through here!”

The sound of Timothée’s slurring voice echoed down the hall and rattled within Esther and Armie’s earshot. Esther let out a subdued gasp as she tensed her entire body, feeling the knapsack of liquor grow heavier upon their backs. Armie, in a sudden impulse of alertness and so to comfort the young nurse, took her small hand in his and steered her continuously down the winding halls with only the candlelit sconces upon the walls to guide them, racing faster and faster away from Timothée’s chasing voice.

“This way, this way!” Timothée called, abandoning the Master’s guiding hand altogether and running ahead of him by many yards. The adrenaline of the night rushed through his tired yet energized limbs as he zipped around a tight corner and happened to catch a glimpse of his beloved at the end of the hall before he too turned a corner, though he was not alone.

Timothée mind was dizzied and voice was slurred, but his eyes did not deceive him when they most certainly perceived the distinct silhouette of his most beloved, darting away from him along the silhouette of one much smaller. That tall frame of a man, topped with the distinct head of his blonde hair, and that small frame of a woman, whose head of long brown hair was so messily tossed down her back, were undoubtedly his lover and a mistress, racing away while hand-in-hand through the dark, empty halls of the estate. Timothée slowed to a stop as the silhouettes disappeared around the corner before him, and he stood shakily in the dark as the blood rushed to his face.

“Timothée, are you well?” The Master called upon catching up to him, though the Omega didn’t answer so immediately. All that swarmed his mind were that of the fleeting images that he only just witnessed— his lover and a mistress— a mistress that Timothée imagined could not be dissimilar from the woman he had met earlier that evening. He thought of Madame Elizabeth, her charm and wit and feminine beauty, and he thought of her words regarding Armie and his earlier opinions of male Omegas. And he thought of Armie.

“Timothée,” The Master called again, placing a hand on Timothée’s thin waist as he stood frozen in the middle of the hall. “Are we to go ahead?”

At the sound of Master Luca’s voice, Timothée’s drunken heart ached with absolute betrayal, resentment, and the longing for revenge, and he promptly pulled his Master to his side with a gripping hand before continuing to make his zigzagging way up to his bed chambers.

“Come dear.”

The Omega’s words slurred, but he steadied his voice by force so not as to indicate to the Master of his volatile emotions. With every swerving step up the staircase to his quarters, Timothée felt his chest grow heavier with angry desperation and heartbreak, and he recollected upon the exact bathroom drawer containing a clear glass bottle that which was filled with Ambrosia after he had smuggled the original out from the bar room and replaced it with a mixture of rye whiskey and lavender essences.

“I’ve longed for nothing more than you.”

~~~

> _Filomarino—_
> 
> _I am writing to you in regard to our latest product and the immediate cessation of its production. The social climate surrounding our product and its effect on the male Omega population is becoming increasingly volatile and hostile, as demonstrated through the protests taking place in the Mid-Summer Festival within the Kingdom Lombardy. Until further notice, I am demanding our production sector to cease and desist until further notice. Note that the newest formulation of our product will not be altered upon the resuming of production, as its effectiveness on consumer dependence have proved to be immensely successful, although a change in the distribution of our product may necessitate an alteration in order to avoid negative public attention as had resulted in the wake of the deaths at the Bergamo Omega Boarding House._
> 
> _The demonstrators and our former businessmen will be dealt with upon the final day of the Mid-Summer Festival._
> 
> _Please see that this letter is thoroughly disposed of upon reading it. Thank you._
> 
> _— L.G_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TYSM to everyone reading!!! 
> 
> I know I've slowed down my output, but please know that I am not intending on ever abandoning this story! I've honestly just been super busy but this story & all this characters & everyone who's been keeping up with this have all been at the forefront of my mind & I've just been really focused on putting out content of the highest quality that I can offer (:
> 
> THANKS AGAIN FOR READING AND COMMENTING <<<3  
> & STAY SAFE & WEAR A MASK BBs


	12. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothée and Armie wonder if they could ever recover from the wreckage that their obsessive and passionate love has left them in.

### Chapter 12 : Betrayal

The bottom of the bottle glistened in the dim light of Timothée’s bathroom like the glittering light at the end of a tunnel, and the young Omega knew that this poison was his only solace on this wretched evening. The Master of the House was waiting on the bed in the next room for his beloved Omega courtesan, hardening with every second that with which he waited for the boy to return from the bathroom.

But how could Timothée return without having finished the entirety of the bottle he had so shamefully stashed in the bathroom drawer? What better way to fulfill his duty as Omega-in-waiting in his heartbroken state than to drown out his sorrows with lust? Timothée imagined that there was a chance that, should his emotions overtake him, he would very likely end up curled on his side in a sobbing ball of drunken tears in the midst of a heated session with the Master, and there was _no way_ that he could succumb to such a vulnerable and broken part of himself before his employer and Master.

And so the Ambrosia glugged its way down Timothée’s throat—at least a pint of the poison—as Timothée reeled in the image of his beloved that he had so recently witnessed.

Armand had been sneaking around the estate with a woman in his absence—a woman that he could have only imagined to had been having sexual relations with. Why else would they be hand-in-hand, skittering away down the hallway at this late hour? Had Armie’s envy of the Master’s position in Timothée’s bedroom overcome him and led him to seeking sexual solace in the arms of this mystery woman? The senselessness of the entire thing plagued Timothée with nothing short of confusion and a sense of betrayal that was further goaded by his own drunkenness.

Although Timothée had been consistently sleeping with the Master, as his responsibilities as Omega-in-waiting would expect, he had desired and dreamt of none other than Armie since his romantic attraction for his professor had surfaced, and the boy had so naively imagined that Armie could have desired for no one else but him in return. This speculation had dissolved at the sight of Armie with this woman, and Timothée had never known as much pain as he did while crouching over his empty bottle on the tiled floor of his private bathroom.

“Timothée?”

The Master’s voice called from the bedroom, and Timothée remembered his duties.

At the moment he stood, his mind shifted from his drunken state of agonizing heartbreak to that of insatiable lust. Timothée went with shaking legs into the bedroom, channeling every inch of his own self-control to keep from tearing his own clothes off of himself at the moment he saw the Master eying him with such hungry desire.

“Luca,” Timothée whined, his voice hoarse and dripping in need. “Luca, Luca…”

The Omega collapsed onto his Master, who was sitting on the edge of his messy bed, rutting his hips against the older man’s lap at the moment they made contact and pressing his open mouth deeply against the mouth of the other. Timothée could only imagine how much of a whore he’d look like, and how he wanted it just so.

_‘Let me look as a whore then,_ ’ He thought, swimming in the awful and wretched thoughts that filled his mind. _‘Let me look as Armie would so badly have wished to see, though I will not allow him as such. Not tonight, and not ever.’_

Timothée felt his Master’s greedy hand plunge below his belt and grab at his hardened member through his trousers.

 _‘I refuse to see him ever again, the traitor, the villain!’_

But before he allowed his uncontrollable lust to overtake his body any further, Timothée removed himself from his Master’s lap and stumbled over to the bay window that overlooked the East Gardens, drawing the curtains wide before hastily taking a lit match to the candlestick that he had earlier perched against the windowsill. The Omega took one final bitter and saddened look at the light in the window before returning to the bed, Master Luca smiling at him in endearment for his Omega’s seeming desire to set the mood for their sexual encounter.

“Luca, Luca…” Timothée moaned, shutting Armie from his mind and pulling the clothes off his own body. “Take me.”

~~~

Armie paced around the East Gardens, having believed that both he and Esther had escaped the bar room completely undetected and had successfully cut off Timothée’s supply of his addictive poison by stealing the remaining bottle of Ambrosia within the liquor cabinets. While hidden in the shadows of the shrubbery, Armie waited anxiously for Timothée’s eventual signal while he silently prayed that Esther would return safely and surely to her own chambers with the stolen bottle after they had parted for the evening.

This signal, that was to be displayed in Timothée’s window once the Master had left his quarters, would signify that it was safe to Armie to proceed and sneak up to see him as they had earlier planned, and oh, how Armie now ached like never had before to hold kiss and comfort and caress his young beloved. The evidence that he and Esther had found earlier that night was all too accurately indicative of Timothée’s struggling with a toxic substance— one that was now infamous for being terribly addictive and fatal in large amounts.

Armie planned a further course of action that he would pursue once within Timothée’s chambers.

First, he would apologize for his earlier internal judgements toward Timothée’s hostile behavior, as Armie had no way of knowing what kind of trouble that Timothée had been hiding from him. If Timothée would deny anything of the sort, Armie would present him with the evidence that he had discovered in his bed chambers under the pretense that he was only concerned for the well-being of his beloved.

Secondly, he would reiterate his feelings for the younger man, assuring his ever-present support for whatever Timothée was facing. He would clutch the boy by his face and ensure that he heard and understood every word of his, thus searing into Timothée mind exactly how much he desired for Timothée to heal and exactly how much he truly cared for him.

Lastly, he would confess all of his former sins, all of which regarded his former views on male Omegas and Omega courtesans. There would no longer be any secrets between them, Armie would ensure. He respected and cared for Timothée too much to keep the former versions of himself under wraps for under longer.

Armie went over this course of action many times over in his mind before at last, from the tiny niche in the East Garden between the peonies and the overgrown ferns that which he stood, the flickering glow of a candlelight presented in the bay window that Armie knew to belong to Timothée. Yes!

Now, Armie only had to wait for the silhouette of Timothée’s shape to appear in the window as outlined by the candlelit shadows, solely as a precaution to signify the utmost clarity that it was safe to Armie to proceed upstairs. One minute passed, and then another, and Armie waited below with a racing heart

When he did not appear after another minute, he began to wonder whether it were the angle of his situation from the East Gardens that restricted his ability to see Timothée in the window. He trailed around the pathway, craning his neck to see if he could spot Timothée’s silhouette from any other angle.

At once, the outline of the young man came into view once Armie side-stepped into the intersection of two pathways. He could not so clearly make out the likeness of his beloved from his distance below the window, but there could be no one else present within those chambers, could there…?

Armie’s racing heart turned to stone as he registered the movements of the figure in the window, its shadow rutting and bounding in an almost rhythmic fashion— No, not one shadow now, but two. Two figures, piling against in each other in a steady, rhythmic, and almost aggressive manner. From below the window and with a craning ear, he could almost make out Timothée’s mewling and whining moans.

_No, no, no, no…_

Armie wished at once that he could erase the image from his mind. He clenched his fists in a raging jealousy, turning and storming away down the garden path in such a harsh manner that the sole of his shoe scraped against the cobbled bricks and almost tore it in two. His blood boiled in rage at the Master, who had been allegedly accused of heading the production and distribution of his beloved’s addictive poison. His stomach churned in jealousy at such an evil person being able to so senselessly tug at and grab at and fuck into the Omega-of-the-house— his kind, troubled, sweet, sensitive, and vulnerable Timothée.

But why would Timothée light the signal at this moment? What was the meaning of the entire thing?

Armie was utterly confused, hurt, and enraged, and his emotions seemed to overtake his limbs as he senselessly stormed back into the estate and toward the staircase that led to Timothée’s chambers.

Armie’s mind was clouded with hate as he stood at the bottom of the staircase in a dizzied and nauseous state. His legs felt like lead, his body shaking with anger and envy as he channeled all the willpower that he possibly could in order to keep himself from storming up the stairs and strangling the Master of the House with his own hands.

Then, he heard the muffled name of his beloved from atop the staircase.

“Timothée? Timothée?”

A pause, and he heard it once more— now louder and more frantic.

“Timothée! Timothée-!”

The voice of the Master called again and again as Armie heard a frenzy, a clashing sound, a panic, and the sound of a door creaking open. Armie ducked beneath the staircase while listening with keen ears to the sound of rapid footsteps tripping down the staircase that led from Timothée’s chambers and the chaotic sounds that followed.

“Nurse! I need a nurse _immediately_! Nurse!”

~~~

Timothée awoke to the sounds of gently twittering songbirds and to that of tree leaves brushing in the breezes above him. At the awareness of his own wakefulness, he opened his eyes to find himself laying across a familiar bench in the East Gardens. The soft rays of the sunshine filtered through the leaves of the flowered bushes around him, bathing every inch of his surroundings in a mesmerizingly surreal and calming glow. He brought himself upright with such little effort that when he remembered exactly where he last was—dizzied and drunken upon his own mattress—he couldn’t help but imagine that he had to be dreaming.

His body felt unlike he had last recalled, his limbs no longer heavy and limp with sadness, grief, or the influence of champagne and Ambrosia. Timothée felt himself like the peonies that hung in the brush across from him. Light, soft, weightless.

“My love.”

A familiar voice called for Timothée—one that which he’d dreamt of a thousand times before.

He stood and searched for the source of Armie’s voice, but he could not place from where it came from as the sound seemed to permeate from every corner and from no corner of the space that surrounded him. The sound of Armie’s voice seemed to call from immediately behind Timothée, from over the flowered walls of green, from down the cobbled path of the garden, and from within the chambers of Timothée’s own headspace.

“Armie?” Timothée called, his voice sounding as baseless as his lover’s. Settling into the stone bench that which he’d awoken on, the young man accepted that his surroundings had to be within a dream.

“I’m here, Armie.”

“As am I.”

“Are you?”

“I am, Timothée.”

They conversed like two ghosts whispering amongst themselves—speaking only to each other and to no one at all within this realm that which only they were allowed. The lush trees, flowers, and bushes of the East Gardens seemed ever-so-gently to swell and recede with every pushing and pulling breeze, as if nature itself were breathing alongside the rhythm of Timothée’s own slow breathes. In, then out.

“Am I awake?” Timothée asked.

“You aren’t.”

“Are you awake?”

“Am I?”

“Are you?”

“ _Am_ I?”

The tone of Armie’s words was not unlike his usual playful manner. This both irked and comforted Timothée, demonstrating that even within Timothée’s own subconscious, the two men couldn’t help but banter, tease, and amuse each other.

“If you aren’t here for clarity, then why are you here at all?” Timothée said. “I am _so_ very confused as it is. Why not let me dream in peace?”

“I’m _not_ here for clarity. I’m here only for you,” Armie returned, his disembodied voice soft and swooning again like butter on a toasted pastry, and how Timothée longed for the lips that which were speaking them.

“And what even should that mean?”

“It means that whether you should choose to stay or leave, so shall I.”

“What is your meaning? And where exactly should I be leaving to?”

Armie’s voice felt silent, leaving Timothée to soak in everything that had happened and speculate upon everything that may happen.

He had consumed an almost fatal amount of Ambrosia on the night of the Mid-Summer Ball, and the pain that had swelled within him in his last conscious moments had accumulated into nothing that he could ever describe in words. The champagne he had even earlier consumed had already been strangling his body of any of its remaining strength as demonstrated when he could barely lift himself from the backseat of the carriage, though his most recent memories are a messy blur. Timothée recalled rutting wildly against his Master, letting himself be wrecked and wrought into oblivion, and then he awoke here.

All of this—Armie’s betrayal, the self-inflicted physical damage, his own disgusting act of vengeance—on top of the immense and lifelong suffering that he had endured in his life as a male Omega, brought Timothée to the conclusion that his body and soul had suffered enough, and that he perhaps may never wake up from this realm.

He then imagined what should happen if his conclusion were true. Would Armie cry when he’d hear the news?

Apathy washed over him, then sadness and regret, and then the angry sting of bitterness and betrayal. He could lash out, blame and scold and scream at the apparition of Armie’s voice within his head, ask him if he had ever truly cared for him in the first place—but what good would that do Timothée? No true answer could come from within this ghostly realm or from that apparition of Armie’s voice—he was so deep within his own subconscious and so very far, far away from Armie and his answers.

_Should_ Timothée even desire an answer from Armie? Should he really desire to know whether Armie ever truly cared for him? Or should he simply depart now, in his bitter and vengeful state, rather than ever discover whether he were truly worth anything to Armie?

“And _what if_ I should depart?” Timothée said, feeling tears begin to well within his eyes. At the same time, invisible droplets of rain began to drizzle down upon the gardens—Timothée could not see the droplets, though he felt their impacts chill and dot his bare arms like tiny pinpricks. The once lush leaves of the peony bushes turned an ashen gray, and even the flowered buds now drooped somberly from their branches.

The entirety of the East Gardens swelled and heaved with every quaking breath of Timothée’s, growing heavier and slower until time itself seemed to still. In that space of suspended time, Timothée clung to every moment he had spent within the company of his lover—from the careful curiosity of their first meeting, to the passionate culmination of their first lovemaking, to their mutual bitterness on the archery grounds—and weighed their worth on his heart.

“If I should depart, what shall you do then, Armie?”

~~~

With skin as pale and colorless as the moon and a face as gaunt as a corpse’s, Timothée looked as lifeless as ever. If it weren’t for the gentle rising and falling of his narrow chest underneath the bedsheets as he lay motionless upon the infirmary cot, Armie would’ve thought that he had already gone and passed.

It was only the next immediate day after Timothée had collapsed from his excessive consumption that Armie found himself at the young man’s bedside in the estate’s infirmary. Armie had departed only to eat and to relieve himself, otherwise remaining at Timothée’s side since that morning. Besides Esther and a doctor that had been called in from in town, Armie was the only other person to remain with him. Master Luca’s prolonged absence in the infirmary caused Armie to wonder whether it were out of guilt or apathy for Timothée’s wellbeing.

Regardless, Armie had no remaining willpower to remain as angry or bitter or jealous at the events that had taken place the night before. Although he _did_ remain as confused and as hurt as ever before, most of his mind was now centered upon the outlook of Timothée’s recovery, which seemed to grow grimmer and grimmer with every passing hour.

The conclusion was that Timothée had overdosed, as relayed to Armie by Esther from the doctor’s observations, and although there was a possibility that Timothée could awaken once again due to the tolerance that he had built up to Ambrosia, there was ultimately no telling whether he may or may not recover from the excessive amount of poison he had willingly consumed that prior evening.

Esther, having been one of the first to respond to the Master’s cries for help that evening, had informed Armie of the terrible news within his own chambers in the early hours of that morning, and the two were met with such debilitating concern after witnessing Timothée’s condition only hours after they had thought that they had rid the barroom of anymore of Timothée’s poison. Neither could conclude why such events had unfolded in the way that they did, although neither could blame Timothée for his condition.

“How could I blame him? This is the Master’s doing,” Armie whispered to Esther under gritted teeth while they both sat at Timothée’s bedside. The doctor had just left the infirmary moments before after his hourly checking-in on Timothée, leaving the two alone to dote upon Timothée’s “This is _his_ doing.”

“But what could’ve caused him to act out like this? I thought you had mentioned that he desired to reconcile with you tonight.”

“He did, but perhaps something had happened at the ball?” Armie pondered, his head in his hands. “I can’t—I _cannot_ bare to see him like this.”

“Nor can I,” Esther said sadly, placing her small hand on Timothée’s pale forearm and tracing soothing circles onto his skin. As Timothée’s principal caretaker, nurse, and confidant, she felt awash with guilt at her inability to act sooner. Her eyes began to well with what seemed like an ocean of tears as she realized that if Timothée would not recover from his overdose, she would be losing a friend as well as a patient.

“I think—” She began to say, steadying her voice with a deep breath. “I think I should leave you alone with him for a moment. Would you like that?”

Armie lifted his head from his hands watched the young nurse as she examined Timothée’s sunken face. Although he hadn’t known Esther for long and had only ever seen her in passing within the estate, he could sense a deep sense of kindheartedness and warmth in the way that she looked at Timothée. He knew that she cared as deeply for Timothée as he did, and that they were both sharing the exact sort of pain.

Esther placed a gentle hand upon Timothée’s cheek as she stood from her stool. She then lowered her face close to his before whispering something in French and placing a lingering kiss upon his forehead. The finality and somberness of her gestures struck terror within Armie’s heart. Was this her goodbye to Timothée?

Armie then took Esther’s hand in his and placed a kiss of gratitude upon the back of her wrist before giving her a final nod as she tearfully turned towards the exit of the infirmary.

“Esther?” Armie called once more. “Did you know? Of Timothée and I… Of our…”

He trailed off before he could say the word ‘affair’.

Esther turned back to him with a surprised look that shifted into one of defeat and slight amusement, though the tears in her eyes never ceased to subside. She nodded.

“How?”

The young nurse shrugged. “He never explicitly said anything, but I think I had always known. The way he spoke of you… I could tell.”

Then, Timothée and Armie were left alone. The Mid-summer sun was lowering in the late-afternoon sky as Armie could tell from the infirmary windows, and Timothée had not stirred in over an hour.

“Is that it, then?” Armie sighed, his voice sounding more exasperated than saddened at that point.

“A shame, then… And on the final night of the Mid-Summer Festival.”

Timothée remained still, breathing gently under his covers.

“Had you not earlier mentioned your burning desire to watch the finale firework show at the festival’s finish? Will you not wake at least for that?”

…

“Then I guess it is so,” Armie said, leaning forward in his stool to be closer to Timothée. The Omega looked almost peaceful in his sleep, reminiscent of the first time that Armie had ever seen Timothée asleep on the music room loveseat. “I suppose we will both miss the final night of the festival.”

…

“I suppose you’ll not even wake to wish me a decent goodbye?” Armie chuckled in a sad and pathetic way. He could taste the salt of his own tears upon his lips. “Then I suppose it is so.”

…

“There is much I would tell you if you would only wake to hear it. But if not, then I suppose there is no use in saying anything.”

Armie lifted the boy’s limp hand from his cot and held it preciously in both of his own, and how he longed to see those green eyes just once more.

“But, if I may… May I just say that I loved you first.”

Armie’s confession rolled off his lips as naturally as he breathed in and out.

“Before you’d even opened your eyes to me—before you’d even awoken from your space on my loveseat in the music room, I’d loved you. Don’t ever believe that _you_ loved _me_ first, because it simply isn’t the truth.”

With a kiss as gentle as Esther’s earlier one, Armie placed his lips upon Timothée’s forehead, lingered in that space for a moment, and then stood from his stool after having decided to step outside. Should Timothée die in his absence, then perhaps it would be just so, as Armie wasn’t sure that he could bear to wait and watch until his breathing finally subsided.

And so, too, did Armie pause in the doorway of the infirmary, wondering whether he should stay or leave. With his back to Timothée’s cot, he felt his feet cemented in their place, unable to lift one of his soles even an inch from the floor.

Then, a familiar voice—one that which he’d dreamt of a thousand times before.

“My love…”

Armie turned to where Timothée lay and watched with teary eyes as the boy blinked, lifting and then leaning his head weakly against his pillow and calling to him with a longing, although very tired look. The boy stirred and shifted, heaving out a deep sigh before settling his sleepy eyes on his lover and beckoning to him to come.

“Armie, my Armie. Come.”

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE AND SUPPORT!! <<<<<33333333
> 
> Honestly with everything going on in the world, I've been so so so so so stressed and depressed, but this story hasn't strayed far from the forefront of my mind. Even though it's been taking me so much longer to write and post, please know and remember that I will never give this story up until its reached its ABSOLUTE and DESERVING end. Thank you to anyone who has been keeping up with this story and for being PATIENT <3
> 
> thanks guys, and please stay safe :)


	13. The Final Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions are at an all-time high on the night of the final day of the Mid-Summer festival.

*COMING SOON*


End file.
